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Masterpieces. 



CHARLES DICKENS 



MASTERPIECES 



FROM 



CHARLES DICKENS. 



PHIT^ADBLPHIA: 
run RODGERS COMPANY. 



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CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

A Tai,e o^ Two Cities 7 

\ Chii^d's Dream of a Star 47 

Martin Chuzzi^Ewit 55 

jDombe" and Son 87 

O1.1VER Twist 99 

Our Mutuai, Friend 145 

The Pickwick Papers 187 

Bi,EAK House 217 

David Copperfield 259 

lyiTTivE DoRRiT 305 

The OIvD Curiosity Shop 325 

NiCHOIvAS NlCKI^EBY 351 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 



T F Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly 
•*■ never shone in the house of Doctor Manette. 
He had been there often, during a whole year, and 
had always been the same moody and morose 
lounger there. When he cared to talk, he talked 
well ; but. the cloud of caring for nothing, which 
overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was 
very rarely pierced by the light within him. 

And yet he did care something for the streets that 
environed that house, and for the senseless stones 
that made their pavements. Many a night he vaguely 
and unhappily wandered there, when wine had 
brought no transitory gladness to him; many a 
dreary daybreak revealed his solitary figure hnger- 
ing there, and still hngering there when the first 
beams of the sun brought into strong rehef. removed 
beauties of architecture in spires of churches and 
lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time brought 
some sense of better things, else forgotten and un- 
attainable, into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed 

7 



8 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

in the Temple Court had known him more scantily 
than ever; and often when he had thrown himself 
upon it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up 
again, and haunted that neighborhood. 

On a day in August, when the sight and scent of 
flowers in the City streets had some waifs of goodness 
m them for the worst, of health for the sickliest, and 
of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod those 
stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his 
feet became animated by an intention, and, in the 
working out of that intention, they took him to the 
doctor's door. 

He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her 
work, alone. She had never been quite at her ease 
with him, and received him with some little embar- 
rassment as he seated himself near her table. But. 
looking up at his face in the interchange of the first 
few common-places, she observed a change in it. 
" I fear you are not well. Mr. Carton !" 
"No. But the hfe I lead. Miss Manette, is not 
conducive to health. What is to be expected of, or 
by, such profligates ?" 

" Is it not— forgive me ; I have begun the question 
on my lips— a pity to hve no better hfe .?" 
" God knows it is a shame !" 
" Then why not change it ?" 

Looking gently at him again, she was surprised 
and saddened to see that there were tears in his 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 9 

eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he an- 
swered : 

" It is too late for that. I shall never be better 
than I am. I shall sink lower, and be worse." 

He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his 
eyes with his hand. The table trembled in the si- 
lence that followed. 

She had never seen him softened, and was much 
distressed. He knew her to be so, without looking 
at her, and said : 

" Pray forgive me. Miss Manette. I break down 
before the knowledge of what I want to say to you. 
Will you hear me ?'' 

" If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would 
make you happier, it would make me very glad!" 

" God bless you for your sweet compassion !" 

He unshaded his face after a little while, and 
spoke steadily. 

" Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from 
anything I say. I am like one who died young. All 
my life might have been." 

" No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of 
it might still be ; I am sure that you might be much, 
much worthier of yourself." 

" Say of you. Miss Manette, and although I know 
better — although in the mystery of my own wretched 
heart I know better — I shall never forget it ! " 

She was pale and trembling. He came to her re- 



lO MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

lief with a fixed despair of himself which made the 
interview unlike any other that could have been 
holden. 

" If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you 
could have returned the love of the man you see be- 
fore you— self-flung away, wasted, drunken, poor 
creature of misuse as you know him to be— he would 
have been conscious this day and hour, in spite of 
his happiness, that he would bring you to misery, 
bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you, dis- 
grace you, pull you down with him. I know very 
well that you can have no tenderness for me ; I ask 
for none ; I am even thankful that it cannot be." 

"Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? 
Can I not recall you— forgive me again !— to a better 
course? Can I in noway repay your confidence? 
I know this is a confidence," she modestly said, after 
a htttle hesitation, and in earnest tears, " I know you 
would say this to no one else. Can I turn it to no 
good account for yourself, Mr. Carton ?" 
He shook his head. 

"To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you 
will hear me through a very little more, all you can 
ever do for me is done. I wish you to to know that 
you have been the last dream of my soul. In my 
degradation I have not been so degraded but that 
the sight of you with your father, and of his home 
made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. II 

that I thought had died out of me. Since I knew 
you, I have been troubled by a remorse that I 
thought would never reproach me again, and have 
heard whispers from old voices impelling me upward, 
that I thought were silent for ever. I have had un- 
formed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, 
shaking off sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the 
abandoned fight. A dream, all a dream, that ends 
in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay 
down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it." 

" Will nothing of it remain ? O Mr. Carton, think 
again ! Try again !" 

*' No, Miss Manette ; all through it, I have known 
myself to be quite undeserving. And yet I have had 
the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish 
you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled 
me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire — a fire, how- 
ever, inseparable in its nature from myself, quicken- 
ing nothing, lighting nothing, doing no service, idly 
burning away." 

" Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have 
made you more unhappy than you were before you 
knew me " 

" Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would 
have reclaimed me, if anything could. You will not 
be the cause of my becoming worse." 

" Since the state of your mind that you describe, 
is, at all events, attributable to some influence of 



12 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

mine — this is what I mean, if I can make it plain — 
can I use no influence to serve you ? Have I no 
power for good, with you, at all ?" 

" The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss 
Manette, I have come here to realize. Let me carry 
through the rest of my misdirected life, the remem- 
brance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the 
world ; and that there was something left in me at 
this time which you could deplore and pity." 

" Which I entreated you to believe, again and 
again, most fervently, with all my heart, was capable 
of better things, Mr. Carton !" 

" Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. 
I have proved myself, and I know better. I distress 
you ; I draw fast to an end. Will you let me believe, 
when I recall this day, that the last confidence of 
my life was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, 
and that it Mes there alone, and will be shared by no 
one ?" 

" If that will be a consolation to you, yes." 

" Not even by the dearest one ever to be known 
to you ?" 

" Mr. Carton," she answered, after an agitated 
pause, "the secret is yours, not mine ; and I promise 
to respect it." 

" Thank you. And again, God bless you.'' 

He put her hand to his lips, and moved toward the 
door. 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. I3 

" Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my 
ever resuming this conversation by so much as a 
passing word. I %\'ill never refer to it again. If I 
were dead, that could not be surer than it is hence- 
forth. In the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred 
the one good remembrance — and shall thank and 
bless you for it — that my last avowal of myself was 
made to you, and that my name, and faults, and 
miseries were gently carried in your heart. May it 
othensnse be light and happy !" 

He was so unlike what he had ever shown him- 
self to be, and it was so sad to think how much he 
had thrown away, and how much he ever\" day kept 
down and perverted, Lucie Manette wept mournfully 
for him as he stood looking back at her. 

"Be comforted I" he said, " I am not worth such 
feeling. Miss Manette. An hour or two hence, and 
the low companions and low habits that I scorn but 
yield to, will render me less worth such tears as 
those, than any wretch who creeps along the street. 
Be comforted I But, within myself, I shall always be, 
towards you, what I am now, though outwardlv I 
be what you have heretofore seen me. The last 
supplication but one I make to you, is, that you will 
believe this of me." 

•' I will, Mr. Carton." 

" My last supplication of all, is this ; and with it, I 
YnU reheve you of a visitor with whom 1 well know 



14 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 



you have nothing in unison, and between whom and 
you there is an impassable space. It is useless to 
say it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, 
and for any dear to you, I would do anything. If 
my career were of that better kind that there was 
any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would 
embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to 
you. Try to hold me in your mind, at some quiet 
times, as ardent and sincere in this one thing. The 
time will come, the time will not be long in coming, 
when new ties will be formed about you — ties that 
will bind you yet more tenderly and strongly to the 
home you so adorn — the dearest ties that will ever 
grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the 
little picture of a happy father's face looks up in 
yours, when you see your own bright beauty spring- 
ing up anew at your feet, think now and then that 
there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life 
you love beside you !" 

He said, " Farewell !" said a last " God bless 
you !" and left her. 



The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they 
were ready outside the closed door of the doctor's 
room, where he was speaking with Charles Darnay. 
They were ready to go to church ; the beautiful 
bride, Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross — to whom the 



^ 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 15 

event, through a gradual process of reconcilement to 
the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bUss, 
but for the yet Ungering consideration that her 
brother Solomon should have been the bridegroom. 

" And so," said Mr. Lorry, who could not suffi- 
ciently admire the bride, and who had been moving 
round her to take in every point of her quiet, pretty 
dress; "and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that 
I brought you across the Channel, such a baby ! 
Lord bless me ! How httle I thought what I was 
doing ! How lightly I valued the obligation I was 
conferring on my friend Mr. Charles ! " 

"You didn't mean it," remarked the matter-of- 
fact Miss Pross, " and therefore how could you know 
it? Nonsense!" 

"Really? Well! but don't cry," said the gentle 

Mr. Lorry. 

" I am not crying,*' said Miss Pross ; ''you are." 

"I, my Pross?" (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared 
to be pleasant with her, on occasion.) 

"You were, just now ; I saw you do it, and I don't 
wonder at it. Such a present of plate as you have 
made 'em, is enough to bring tears into anybody's 
eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collec- 
tion," said Miss Pross, " that I didn't cry over, last 
night after the box came, till I couldn't see it." 

" I am highly gratified," said Mr. Lorry, " though 
upon my honor, I had no intention of rendering 



1 6 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

those trifling articles of remembrance invisible to 
any one. Dear me ! This is an occasion that makes 
a man speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, 
dear! To think that there might have been a Mrs, 
Lorry, any time these fifty years almost ! " 

" Not at all ! " From Miss Pross. 

"You think that there never might have been a 
Mrs. Lorry ? " asked the gentleman of that name. 

" Pooh ! " rejoined Miss Pross , " you were a 
bachelor in your cradle." 

"Well?" observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjust- 
ing his little wig, "that seems probable, too. " 

"And you were cut out for a bachelor," pursued 
Miss Pross, " before you were put in your cradle." 

"Then, I think, said Mr. Lorry, " that I was very 
unhandsomely dealt with, and that I ought to have 
had a voice in the selection of my pattern. Enough ! 
Now, my dear Lucie," drawing his arm soothingly 
round her waist, " I hear them moving in the next 
room, and Miss Pross and I, as two formal folks of 
business, are anxious not to lose the final opportunity 
of saying something to you that you wish to hear. 
You leave your good father, my dear, in hands as 
earnest and as loving as your own ; he shall be taken 
every conceivable care of during the next fortnight, 
while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even 
Tellson's shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) 
before him. And when, at the fortnight's end, he 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 1/ 

comes to join you and your beloved husband, on 
your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say 
that we have sent him to you in the best health and 
in the happiest frame. Now, I hear somebody's step 
coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl widi 
an old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody 
comes to claim his own.'' 

For a moment he held the fair face from him to 
look at the well-remembered expression on the fore- 
head, and then laid the bright golden hair against 
his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and 
delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were 
as old as Adam. 

The door of the doctor's room opened, and he 
came out with Charles Darnay. 

He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her 
down stairs to the chariot which Mr. Lorry had hired 
in honor of the day. The rest followed in another 
carnage, and soon, in a neighboring church, where 
no strange eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and 
Lucie Manette were happily married. 

Besides the glancing tears that shone among the 
smiles of the little group when it was done, some dia- 
monds very bright and sparkling, glanced on the 
bride's hand, which were newly released from the 
dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They- 
returned home to breakfast, and all went well, and in 
due course the golden hair that had mingled with 



1 8 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, 
were minj^led with them again in the morning sun- 
light, on the threshold of the door at parting. 

It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. 
But her father cheered her, and said at last, gently- 
disengaging himself from her enfolding arms, " Take 
her, Charles! She is yours ! " 

And her agitated hand waved to them from the 
chaise window, and she was gone. 

When the newly-married pair came home, the first 
person who appeared, to offep^ his congratulations, 
was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home 
many hours, when he presented himself. He was 
not improved in habits, or in looks, or in manner ; 
but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity about 
him, which was new to the observation of Charles 
Darnay. 

He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay 
aside into a window, and of speaking to him when 
no one overheard. 

" Mr. Darnay," said Carton, " I wish we might be 
friends." 

" We are already friends, I hope.'' 

" You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of 
speech ; but, I don't mean any fashion of speech. 
Indeed, when I say I wish we might be friends, I 
scarcely mean quite that either.'' 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. I9 

Charles Darnay — as was natural — asked him, in all 
good humor, and good-fellowship, what he did mean ? 

" Upon my life,'' said Carton, smihng, " I find that 
easier to comprehend in my own mind, than to con- 
vey to yours. However, let me try. You remember 
a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk 
than — than usual ?" 

" I remember a certain famous occasion when 
you forced me to confess that you had been drink- 
ing." 

" I remember it too. The curse of those occasions 
is heavy upon me, for I always remember them. I 
hope it may be taken into account one day, when all 
days are at an end for me ! Don't be alarmed ; I 
am not going to preach.'' 

" 1 am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is 
anything but alarming to me." 

*' Ah !" said Carton, with a careless wave of his 
hand, as if he waved that away. "On the drunken 
occasion in question (one of a large number, as you 
know), I was insufferable about liking you and not 
liking you. I wish you would forget it." 

" I forgot it long ago." 

" Fashion of speech again ! But, Mr. Darnay, 
oblivion is not so easy to me, as you represent it to 
be to you. I have by no means forgotten it, and a 
light answer does not help me to forget it." 

" If it was a light answer," returned Darnay, "I 



20 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 



I 



beg your forgiveness for it. I had had no other ob 
ject than to turn a sHght thing, which, to my sur- 
prise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I de- 
clare to you, on the faith of a gentleman, that I have 
long dismissed it from my mind." 

" Well ! At any rate you know me as a dissolute 
dog, who has never done any good, and never will." 

" I don't know that you ' never will.' " 

" But I do, and you must take my word for it. 
Well ! If you could endure to have such a worth- 
less fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent reputa- 
tion, coming and going at odd times, I should ask 
that I might be permitted to come and go as a privi- 
leged person here ; that I might be regarded as an 
useless (and I would add, if it were not for the re- 
semblance I detected between you and me), an un- 
ornamental, piece of furniture, tolerated for its old 
service, and taken no notice of I doubt if I should 
abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I 
should avail myself of it four times in a year. It 
would satisfy me, I dare say, to know that I had it." 

"Will you try ?" 

" That is another way of saying that I am 
placed on the footing I have indicated. I thank 
you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your 
name ?" 

" I think so. Carton, by this time.'* 

They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 21 

away. Within a minute afterward, he was, to ali 
outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever. 

When he was gone, and in the course of an even- 
ing passed with Miss Pross, the doctor and Mr. Lorry, 
Charles Darnay made some mention of this conver- 
sation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton 
as a problem of carelessness and recklessness. He 
spoke of him, in short, not bitterly or meaning to bear 
hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw him 
as he showed himself. 

He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts 
of his fair young wife ; but, when he afterward 
joined her in their own rooms, he found her waiting 
for him with the old pretty Hfting of the forehead 
strongly marked. 

" We are thoughtful to-night !" said Darnay, draw- 
ing his arm about her. 

"Yes, dearest Charles," with her hands on his 
breast, and the inquiring and attentive expression 
fixed upon him, "we are rather thoughtful to-night, 
for we have something on our mind to-night. ' 

"What is it, my Lucie?" 

" Will you promise not to press one question on 
me, if I beg you not to ask it ?'' 

" Will I promise ? What will I not promise to my 
Love?" 

What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the 
golden hair from the cheek, and his other hand 
against the heart that beat for him. 



22 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more 
consideration and respect than you expressed for 
him to-night." 

" Indeed, my own ? Why so ? " 

" That is what you are not to ask me .'' But I 
tiiink — I know — he does." 

" If you know it, it is enough. What would you 
have me do, my Life ? " 

*' I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous 
with him always, and very lenient on his faults 
when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that 
he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and 
that there are deep wounds in it. My dear, I have 
seen it bleeding." 

" It is a painful reflection to me," said Charles Dar- 
nay, quite astounded, " that I should have done him 
any wrong. I never thought this of him." 

" My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be re- 
claimed ; there is scarcely a hope that anything in 
his character or fortunes is reparable now. But, I 
am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle 
things, even magnanimous things." 

She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in 
this lost man, that her husband could have looked at 
her as she was for hours. 

" And, O my dearest love ! " she urged, clinging 
nearer to him, laying her head upon his breast, and 
raising her eyes to his, " remember how strong we 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 23 

are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his 
misery." 

The suppHcation touched him home. " I will 
always remember it, dear heart ! I will remember 
it as long as I Uve." 

He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy 
lips to his, and folded her in his arms. If one for- 
lorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets, could 
have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have 
seen the drops of pity kissed away by her husband 
from the soft blue eyes so loving of that husband, he 
might have cried to the night— and the words would 
not have parted from his lips for the first time— 

" God bless her for her sweet compassion ! " 



In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed 
of the day awaited their fate. They were in number 
as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were to roll 
that afternoon on the hfe-tide of the city to the 
boundless everlasting sea. Before their cells were 
quit of them, new occupants were appointed ; before 
their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday, the 
blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was 
already set apart. 

Two score and twelve were told off. From the 
farmer-general of seventy, whose riches could not 
buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose pov- 



24 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

erty and obscurity could not save her. Physical 
diseases, engendered in the vices and neglects of 
men, will seize on victims of all degrees ; and the 
frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffer- 
ing, intolerable oppression, and heartless indiffer- 
ence, smote equally without distinction. 

Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained 
himself with no flattering delusion since he came to 
it from the Tribunal. He had fully comprehended 
that no personal influence could possibly save him, 
that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and 
that units could avail him nothing. 

Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his 
beloved wife fresh before him, to compose his mind 
to what it must bear. His hold on life was strong, 
and it was very, very hard, to loosen ; by gradual 
efforts and degrees unclosed a httle here it clenched 
the tighter there ; and when he brought his strength 
to bear on that hand and it yielded, this was closed 
again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts, 
a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that 
contended against resignation. If, for a moment, he 
did feel resigned, then his wife and child who had to 
live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a 
selfish thing. 

But all this was at first. Before long, the consid- 
eration that there was no disgrace in the fate he must 
meet, and that numbers went the same road wrong- 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 2 5 

fully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to 
stimulate him. Next followed the thought that much 
of the future peace of mind enjoyable by the dear 
ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So, by de- 
grees he calmed into the better state, when he could 
raise his thoughts much higher, and draw comfort 
down. 

Before it had set in dark on the night of his con- 
demnation, he had traveled thus far on his last way. 
When he lay down on his straw bed he thought he 
had done with this world. 

But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and 
showed itself in shining forms. Free and happy, 
back in the old house in Soho (though it had nothing 
in it like the real house), unaccountably released and 
light of heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told 
him it was all a dream and he had never gone 
away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had 
even suffered, and had come back to her, dead and 
at peace, and yet there was no difference in him. 
Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the 
sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what 
had happened, until it flashed npon his mind, "this 
is the day of my death ! " 

Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day 
when the fifty-two heads were to fall. And now, 
while he was composed, and hoped that he could 
meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began 



26 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

in his waking thoughts, which was very difficult tc 
master. 

He had never seen the instrument that was to ter- 
minate his hfe. How high it was from the ground, 
how many steps it had, where he would be stood, 
how he would be touched, whether the touching 
hands would be dyed red, which way his face would 
be turned, whether he would be the first, or might be 
the last : these and many similar questions, in no 
wise directed by his will obtruded themselves over 
and over again, countless times. Neither were they 
connected with fear : he was conscious of no fear. 
Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire 
to know what to do when the time came ; a desire 
gigantically disproportionate to the few swift mo- 
ments to which it referred ; a wondering that was 
more like the wondering of some other spirit within 
his, than his own. 

The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and 
the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear 
again. Nine gone forever, ten gone forever, eleven 
gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. Af- 
ter a hard contest with that eccentric action of 
thought which had last perplexed him, he had got the 
better of it. He walked up and down softly repeat- 
ing their names to himself. The worst of the strife 
was over. He could walk up and down, free from 
distracting fancies, praying for himself and for them. 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 2J 

Twelve gone forever. 

He had been appraised that the final hour wa. 
three, and he knew he would be summoned some- 
time, earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily 
and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he re- 
solved to keep two before his mind, as the hour, and 
so to strengthen himself in the interval that he might 
be able, after that time, to strengthen others. 

Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded 
on his breast, a very different man from the prisoner, 
who had walked to and fro at La Force, he heard 
one struck away from him, without surprise. The 
hour had measured like most other hours. Devoutly 
thankful to Heaven for his recovered self-possession, 
he thought " There is but another now," and turned 
to walk again. 

Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. 
He stopped. 

The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before 
the door was opened, or as it opened, a man said in 
a low voice, in English : " He has never seen me 
here ; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone ; 
I wait near. Lose no time ! " 

The door was quickly opened and closed, and 
there stood before him face to face, quiet, intent upon 
him, with the light of a smile on his features, and a 
cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton. 

There was something so bright and remarkable in 



28 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

his look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner mis- 
doubted him to be an apparition of his own imagin- 
ing. But he spoke, and it was his voice, he took 
the prisoner's hand, and it was his real grasp. 

" Of all the people upon earth, you least expected 
to see me ? " he said. 

" I could not beheve it to be you. I can scarcely 
beheve it now. You are not'' — the apprehension 
came suddenly into his mind — '' a prisoner ? " 

" No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over 
one of the keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand 
before you. I come from her — your wife, dear Dar- 
nay.'' 

The prisoner wrung his hand. 

" I bring you a request from her." 

"What is it?" 

" A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, 
addressed to you in the most pathetic tones of the 
voice so dear to you, that you well remember." 

The prisoner turned his face partly aside. 

" You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or 
what it means; I have no time to tell you. You 
must comply with it — take off those boots you wear, 
and draw on these of mine." 

There was a chair against the wall of the cell, be- 
hind the prisoner. Carton, pressing forward, had 
already, with the speed of lightning, got him down 
into it, and stood over him, barefoot. 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 29 

" Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands 
to them ; put your will to them. Quick ! " 

" Carton, there is no escaping from this place ; it 
never can be done. You will only die with me. It 
is madness. 

" It would be madness if I asked you to escape ; 
but do I ? When I ask you to pass out at that door, 
tell me it is madness and remain here. Change that 
cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. 
While you do it let me take this ribbon from your 
hair, and shake out your hair like this of mine ! " 

With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both 
of will and action, that appeared quite supernatural, 
he forced all these changes upon him. The prisoner 
was like a young child in his hands. 

" Carton ! Dear Carton ! Tt is madness. It can- 
not be accomphshed, it never can be done, it has 
been attempted, and has always failed. I implore 
you not to add your death to the bitterness of 

mine." 

" Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the 
door ? When I ask that, refuse. There are pen and 
ink and paper on this table. Is your hand steady 
enough to write ?" 

" It was when you came in." 
' "Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. 
Quick, friend, quick ! " 

Pressing his hand to his bewrldered head, Darnay 



30 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

sat down at the table. Carton, with his right hand 
in his breast, stood close beside him. 

" Write exactly as I speak." 

" To whom do I address it ? 

"To no one." ti^arton still had his hand in his 
breast. 

"Do I date it?" 

"No." 

The prisoner looked up at each question. Carton 
standing over him with his hand in his breast, 
looked down. 

" ' If you remember,' " said Carton, dictating, 
" ' the words that passed between us, long ago, you 
will readily comprehend this when you see it. You 
do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature 
to forget them.' " 

He was drawing his hand from his breast ; the 
prisoner chancing to look up in his hurried wonder 
as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon some- 
thing. 

"Have you written 'forget them*?" Carton 
asked. 

" I have. Is that a weapon in your hand ?'' 

" No ; I am not armed." 

" What is it in your hand ? " 

" You shall know directly. Write on ; there are 
but a few words more.'' He dictated again. " ' I 
am thankful that the time has come, when I can 




A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 3 1 

prove them. That I do so is no subject for regret or 
grief.' '' As he said these words with his eyes fixed 
on the writer, his hand slowly and softly moved down 
close to the writer's face. 

The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the 
table, and he looked about him vacantly. 

" What vapor is that ? " he asked. 

"Vapor?" 

" Something that crossed me ? " 

*' I am conscious of nothing ; there can be nothing 
here. Take up the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry ! '' 

As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties 
disordered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his 
attention. As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes 
and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton — 
his hand again in his breast — looked steadily at him. 

" Hurry, hurry ! " 

The prisoner bent over the paper once more. 

" ' If it had been otherwise ; ' " Carton's hand was 
again watchfully and softly stealing down; '"I 
never should have used the longer opportunity. If 
it had been otherwise ; ' " the hand was at the 
prisoner's face ; " ' I should but have had so much 
the more to answer for. If it had been otherwise — ' " 
Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off 
into unintelligible signs. 

Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. 
The prisoner sprang up with a reproachful look, but 



32 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Carton's hand was close and firm at his nostrils, and 
Carton's left arm caught him around the waist. For 
a few seconds he vainly struggled with the man who 
had come to lay down his life for him ; but, within a 
minute or so, he was stretched insensible on the 
ground. 

Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as 
his heart was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes 
the prisoner had laid aside, combed back his hair, 
and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. 
Then he softly called, " Enter there ! Come in ! " 
and the Spy presented himself. 

"You see?" said Carton, looking up, as he 
kneeled on one knee beside the insensible figure, 
putting the paper in the breast : " is your hazard 
very great? " 

"Mr. Carton," the Spy answered, with a timid 
snap of his fingers, " my hazard is not that, in the 
thick of business here, if you are true to the whole of 
your bargain." 

" Don't fear me. I will be true to the death." 

*' You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two 
is to be right. Being made right by you in that 
dress, I shall have no fear." 

" Have no fear ! I shall soon be out of the way 
of harming you, and the rest will soon be far from 
here, please God. Now, get assistance and take me 
to the coach." 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 33 

" You ? " said the Spy nervously. 

" Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You 
go out at the gate by which you brought me in ? " 

" Of course." 

" I was weak and faint when you brought me in, 
and I am fainter now you take me out. The 
parting interview has overpowered me. Such a 
thing has happened here, often, and too often. 
Your hfe is in your own hands. Quick ! Call 
assistance ! " 

" You swear not to betray me ? " said the tremb- 
ling Spy, as he paused for a last moment. 

" Man, man ! '' returned Carton, stamping his 
foot; "have I sworn by no solemn vow already, to 
go through with this, that you waste the precious 
moments now ? Take him yourself to the court- 
yard you know of, place him yourself in the carriage, 
show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him yourself to 
give him no restorative but air, and to remember my 
words of last night, and his promise of last night, and 
drive away ! " 

The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at 
the table, resting his forehead on his hands. The 
Spy returned immediately, with two men. 

"How, then?" said one of them, contemplating 
the fallen figure. " So afflicted to find that his friend 
has drawn a prize in the lottery of Saint Guillotine ?" 

"A good patriot," said the other, " could hardly 



34 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

have been more afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn 
a blank." 

They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a 
htter they had brought to the door, and bent to carry 
it away. 

" The time is short, Evremonde," said the Spy, in 
a warning voice. 

" I know it well,'' answered Carton. " Be careful 
of my friend I entreat you, and leave me." 

" Come, then, my children," said Barsad. "Lift 
him, and come away ! '' 

The door closed, and Carton was left alone. 
Straining his powers of listening to the utmost, he 
listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or 
alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors 
clashed, footsteps passed along distant passages ; no 
cry was raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual. ■ 
Breathing more freely in a little while, he sat down 
at the table, and listened again until the clock struck 
two. 

Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined 
their meaning, then began to be audible. Several 
doors were opened in succession, and finally his 
own. A jailer, with a list in his hand, looked in, 
merely saying, " Follow me, Evremonde ! " and he 
followed into a large dark room, at a distance. It 
was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows 
without, he could but dimly discern the others who 



t 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 35 

were brought there to have their arms bound. Some 
were standing ; some seated. Some were lamenting, 
and in restless motion ; but these were few. The 
great majority were silent and still, looking fixedly at 
the ground. 

As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while 
some of the fifty-two were brought in after him, one 
man stopped in passing to embrace him, as having a 
knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great 
dread of discovery : but the man went on. A very 
few moments after that, a young woman, with a 
slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there 
was no vestige of color, and large widely opened 
patient eyes, rose from the seat where he had ob- 
served her sitting, and came to speak to him. 

" Citizen Evremonde,'' she said, touching him 
with her cold hand. " I am a poor little seamstress, 
who was with you in La Force." 

He murmured for answer: "True, I forget what 
you were accused of ? " 

" Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am 
innocent of any. Is it likely ? Who would think of 
plotting with a poor little weak creature like me ? " 

The forlorn smile with which she said it, so 
touched him, that tears started from his eyes. 

" I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I 
have done nothing, I am not unwiUing to die, if the 
Republic which is to do so much good to us poor. 



36 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

will profit by my death ; but I do not know how that 
can be, Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little 
creature ! " 

As the last thing on earth that his heart was to 
warm and soften to, it warmed and softened to this 
pitiable girl. 

" I heard you were released, Citizen Evr6monde. 
I hoped it was true ? '' 

" It was. But I was again taken and con- 
demned." 

" If I may ride with you. Citizen Evremonde, will 
you let mo hold your hand ? I am not afraid, but I 
am little and weak, and it will give me more cour- 
age." ^1 

As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw 
a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment. 
He pressed the work-worn, hunger worn young fin- 
gers and touched his lips. 

" Are you dying for him ? " she whispered. 

" And his wife and child. Hush ! Yes." 

" O you will let me hold your brave hand,] 
stranger ? " 

" Hush ! Yes, my poor sister ; to the last." 

I 

Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, 
hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's wine 
to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate 
Monsters imagined since imagination could record 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 37 

itself, are fused in the one realization, Guillotine. 
And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety 
of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a 
peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under con- 
ditions more certain than those that have produced 
this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once 
more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself 
into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of 
rapacious license and oppression over again, and 
it will surely yield the same fruit according to its 
kind. 

Six tumbrils rolled along the street. Change these 
back again to what they were, thou powerful en- 
chanter. Time, and they shall be seen to be the car- 
riages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal 
nobles, the toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches 
that are not my father's house but dens of thieves, 
the huts of miUions of starving peasants ! No ; the 
great magician who majestically works out the ap- 
pointed order of the Creator, never reverses his 
transformations. " If thou be changed into this 
shape by the will of God,'' says the seer to the en- 
chanted, in the wise Arabian stories, " then remain 
so ! But, if thou wear this form through mere pass- 
ing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect ! " 
Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils rolled along. 

As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, 
they seem to plough up a long crooked furrow 



38 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces 
are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs 
go steadily onward So used are the regular inhabi- 
tants of the houses to the spectacle, that in many 
windows there are no people, and in some the occu- 
pation of the hands is not so much as suspended, 
while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. 
Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the 
sight; then he points his finger, with something of 
the complacency of a curator or authorized exponent, 
to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat 
here yesterday, and who there the day before. 

Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these 
things, and all things on their last roadside, with 
an impassive stare ; others, with a lingering interest 
in the ways of hfe and men. Some, seated with 
drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair ; again, 
there are some so heedful of their looks that they 
cast upon the multitude such glances as they have 
seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their 
eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts 
together. Only one, and he a miserable creature, of 
a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by 
horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of 
the whole number appeals by look or gesture, to the 
pity of the people. 

There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding 
abreast of the tumbrils, and faces are often turned 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 39 

up to some of them, and they are asked some ques- 
tion. It would seem to be always the same question, 
for, it is always followed by a press of people toward 
the third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, 
frequently point out one man in it with their swords. 
The leading curiosity is, to know which is he ; he 
stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent 
down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the 
side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has no 
curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always 
speaks to the girl. Here and there in the long street 
of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If 
they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he 
shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. 
He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound. 

On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming- 
up of the tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. 
He looks into the first of them : not there. He 
looks into the second : not there. He already asks 
himself, "Has he sacrificed me?" when his face 
clears, as he looks into the third. 

"Which is Evremonde?" says a man behind 
him. 

" That. At the back there." 

"With his hand in the girl's ?" 

" Yes." 

The man cries, "Down, Evremonde! To the 
Guillotine all aristocrats ! Down, Evremonde ! " 



40 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

"Hush, hushl" the Spy entreats him timidly. 

"And why not, citizen?" 

"He is going to pay the forfeit : it will be paid 
in five minutes more. Let him be at peace." 

But the man continuing to exclaim, " Down Ev- 
remonde ! " the face of Evremonde is for a moment 
turned toward him. Evremonde then sees the Spy, 
and looks attentively at him, and goes his way. . . . 

The Ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and 
ready. Crash ! — A head is held up, and the knit- 
ting-women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look 
at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, 
count One. 

The second tumbril empties and moves on ; the 
third comes up. Crash ! — And the knitting-wo- 
men, never faltering or pausing in their work, 
count Two. 

The supposed Evremonde descends, and the 
seamstress is lifted out next after him. He has not 
relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but still 
holds it as he promised. He gently places her with 
her back to the crashing engine that constantly 
whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face and 
thanks him. 

" But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so com- 
posed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of 
heart : nor should I have been able to raise my 
thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we 




Masterpieces — Dickens 



SYDNEY CARTON. 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 4 1 

might have hope and comfort here to day. I think 
you were sent to me by Heaven." 

" Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. " Keep 
your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other 
object," 

" I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall 
mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid." 

" They will be rapid. Fear not ! " 

The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of vic- 
tims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to 
eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, 
these two children of the Universal Mother, else so 
wide apart and differing, have come together on the 
dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in 
her bosom. 

" Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask 
you one last question ? I am very ignorant, and it 
troubles me — just a Httle." 

" T-^U me what it is." 

" I have a cousin, an only relative and an or- 
phan, like myself, whom I love very dearly. She 
is five years younger thau I, and she lives in a 
farmer's house in the south country. Poverty part- 
ed us, and she knows nothing of my fate — for I 
cannot write — and if I could, how should I tell 
her ! It is better as it is." 

" Yes, yes ; better as it is." 

"What I have been thinking as we came along, 



42 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

and what I am still thinking now, as I look into 
your kind strong face which gives me so much 
support, is this : — If the Republic really does good 
to the poor, and they come to be less hungry and in 
all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time ; 
she may even live to be old." 

"What then, my gentle sister?" 

" Do you think : " the uncomplaining eyes in 
which there is so much endurance, fill with tears, 
and the lips part a little more and tremble : " that 
it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in 
the better land where I trust both you and I will 
be mercifully sheltered ? '* 

" It cannot be, my child ; there is no Time there, 
and no trouble there." 

"You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. 
Am I to kiss you now } Is the moment come .?" 

"Yes." 

She kisses his lips ; he kisses hers ; they solemnly 
bless each other. The spare hand does not tremble 
as he releases it ; nothing worse than a sweet, bright 
constancy is in the patient face. She goes next be- 
fore him — is gone ; the knitting-women count 
Twenty-Two. 

"I am the Resurrection and the life," said the 
Lord; "he that believeth in me, though he were 
dead, yet shall he live : and whosoever liveth in me 
shall never die." 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 43 

The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of 
many faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the 
outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in 
one great mass, like one great heave of water, all 
flashes away. Twenty-Three. 



A CHILD'S Dream of a Star. 



45 



A CHILD'S Dream of a Star. 



T 



HERE was once a child, and he strolled about 
a good deal, and thought of a number of 
things. He had a sister, who was a child too, and 
his constant companion. These two used to wonder 
all day long. They wondered at the beauty of the 
flowers ; they wondered at the height and blueness 
of the sky; they wondered at the depth of the 
bright water ; they wondered at the goodness and 
the power of God who made the lovely world. 

They used to say to one another, sometimes. Sup- 
posing all the children upon earth were to die, would 
the flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry ? 
They believed they would be sorry. For, said they, 
the buds are the children of the flowers, and the 
little playful streams that gambol down the hill-sides 
are the children of the water; and the smallest bright 
specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night, 
must surely be the children of the stars ; and they 
would all be grieved to see their playmates, the 
children of men no more. 

There was one clear shining star that used to 

47 



48 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

come out in the sky before the rest, near the church 
spire, above the graves. It was larger and more 
beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and 
every night they watched for it, standing hand in 
hand at a window. Whoever saw it first cried out, 
" I see the star ! " And often they cried out both 
together, knowing so well when it would rise, and 
where. So they grew to be such friends with it, that, 
before lying down in their beds, they always looked 
out once again, to bid it good-night; and when they 
were turning round to sleep, they used to say, " God 
bless the star! " 

But while she was still very young, oh very, very 
young, the sister drooped, and came to be so very 
weak that she could no longer stand in the window 
at night ; and then the child looked sadly out by 
himself, and when he saw the star, turned round and 
said to the patient pale face on the bed, " I see the 
star! " and then a smile would come upon the face, 
and a little weak voice used to say, " God bless my 
brother and the star ! " 

And so that time came all too soon ! when the 
child looked out alone, and when there was no face 
on the bed ; and when there was a little grave 
among the graves, not there before ; and when the 
star made long rays down toward him, as he saw it 
through his tears. 

Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed 



A child's dream of a star. 49 

to make such a shining way from earth to Heaven, 
that when the child went to his soHtary bed, he 
dreamed about the star ; and dreamed that, lying 
where he was, he saw a train of people taken up 
that sparkling road by angels. And the star, open- 
ing, showed him a great world of light, where many 
more such angels waited to receive them. 

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their 
beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up 
into the star ; and soon came out from the long rows 
in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, 
and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them 
down avenues of light, and were so happy in their 
company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. 

But, there were many angels who did not go with 
them, and among them one he knew. The patient 
face that once had lain upon the bed was glori- 
fied and radiant, but his heart found out his sister 
among all the host. 

His sister's angel lingered near the entrance to 
the star, and said to the leader among those who 
had brought the people thither: 

"Is my brother come?" 

And he said " No." 

She was turning hopefully away, when the child 
stretched out his arms, and cried, " O, sister, I am 
here! Take me!" and then she turned her beam- 
ing eyes upon him, and it was night ; and the star 
4 



50 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

was shining in the room, making long rays down 
toward him as he saw it through his tears. 

From that hour forth, the child looked out upon 
the star as on the home he was to go to, when his 
time should come ; and he thought that he did not 
belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because 
of his sister's angel gone before. 

There was a baby born to be a brother to the 
child ; and while he was so little that he never yet 
had spoken a word, he stretched his tiny form out on 
his bed, and died. 

Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of 
the company of angels, and the train of people, and 
the rows of angels with their beaming eyes all turned 
upon those people's faces. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader : 

" Is my brother come? " 

And he said, " Not that one, but another." 

As the child beheld his brother's angel in her 
arms, he cried, " O, sister, I am here ! Take me ! " 
And she turned and smiled upon him, and the star 
was shining. 

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his 
books when an old servant came to him and said : 

" Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessings on 
her darhng son ! " 

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former 
company. Said his sister's angel to the leader ; 



A CHILD S DREAM OF A STAR. 5 I 

" Is my brother come ? " 

And he said, " Thy mother ! " 

A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the 
star, because the mother was re-united to her two 
children. And he stretched out his arms and cried, 
O, mother, sister and brother, I am here ! Take 
me ! " And they answered him, " Not yet," and the 
star was shining. 

He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, 
and he was sitting in his chair by his fireside, heavy 
with grief, and with his face bedewed with tears when 
the star opened once again. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader : " Is my 
brother come?" 

And he said, " Nay, but, his maiden daughter." 

And the man who had been the child saw his 
daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial creature 
among those three, and he said, " My daughter's 
head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around 
my mother's neck, and at her feet there is the baby 
of old time, and I can bear the parting from her. 
God be praised ! " 

And the star was shining. 

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his 
once smooth face was wrinkled, and his steps were 
slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And one 
night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing 
round, he cried, as he had cried so long ago ; 



52 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" I see the star ! " 

They whispered one another. " He is dying." 

Aud he said, " 1 am. My age is faUing from me 
like a garment, and I move toward the star as a 
child. And O, my Father, now I thank thee that it 
has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who 
await me ! " 

And the star was shining; and it shines upon his 
grave. 



1 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 



S3 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 



'irOM PINCH and his sister having to part, for the 
dispatch of the morning's busines, had no op- 
portunity of discussing the subject at that time. But 
Tom, in his solitary office, and Ruth, in the trian- 
gular parlor, thought about nothing else all day ; and, 
when their hour of meeting in the afternoon ap- 
proached, they were very full of it, to be sure. 

There was a little plot between them, that Tom 
should always come out of the Temple by one way ; 
and that was past the fountain. Coming through 
Fountain Court, he was just to glance down the steps 
leading into Garden Court, and to look once ail 
round him ; and if Ruth had come to meet him, 
there he would see her-; not sauntering, you under- 
stand (on account of the clerks), but coming briskly 
up, with the best little laugh upon her face that ever 
played in opposition to the fountain, and beat it all 
to nothing. For, fifty to one, Tom had been looking 
for her in the wrong direction, and had quite given 
her up, while she had been trippmg toward him from 
the first, jingling that little reticule of hers (with all 

55 



56 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

the keys in it) to attract his wandering observa- 
tion. 

Whether there was life enough left in the slow ve- 
getation of Fountain Court for the smoky shrubs to 
have any consciousness of the brightest and purest- 
hearted little woman in the world, is a question for 
gardeners, and those who are learned in the loves of 
plants. But, that it was a good thing for that same 
paved yard to have such a delicate little figure flit- 
ting through it ; that it passed like a smile from the 
grimy old houses, and the worn flag stones, and left 
them duller, darker, sterner than before ; there is no 
sort of doubt. The Temple fountain might have 
leaped up twenty feet to greet the spring of hopeful 
maidenhood, that in her person stole on, sparkling, 
through the dry and dusty channels of the Law; the 
chirping sparrows, bred in Temple chinks and cran- 
nies, might have held their peace to listen to im- 
aginary skylarks, as so fresh a little creature passed ; 
the dingy boughs, unused to droop, otherwise than 
in their puny growth, might have bent down in a 
kindred gracefulness, to shed their benedictions on 
her graceful head ; old love letters, shut up in iron 
boxes in the neighboring offices, and made of no ac- 
count among the heaps of family papers into which 
they had strayed, and of which, in their degeneracy, 
they formed a part, might have stirred and fluttered 
with a moment's recollection of their ancient tender- 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 57 

ness, as she went lightly by. Anything might have 
happened that did not happen, and never will, for 
the love of Ruth. 

Something happened, too, upon the afternoon of 
which the history treats. Nor for her love. Oh no ! 
quite by accident, and without ,the least reference to 
her at all. 

Either she was a little too soon, or Tom was a little 
too late — she was so precise in general, that she 
timed it to half a minute — but no Tom was there. 
Well ! But was anybody else there, that she blushed 
so deeply, after looking round, and tripped off down 
the steps, with such unusual expedition ? 

Why, the fact is, that Mr. Westlock was passing at 
that moment. The Temple is a public thoroughfare ; 
they may write upon the gates that it is not, but so 
long as the gates are left open it is, and will be : and 
Mr. Westlock had as good a right to be there as any- 
body else. But why did she run away, then ? Not 
being ill dressed, for she was much too neat for that, 
why did she run away ? The brown hair that had 
fallen down beneath her bonnet, and had one im- 
pertinent imp of a false flower clinging to it, boastful 
of its license before all men, that could not have 
been the cause, for it looked charming. Oh ! foohsh, 
panting, frightened little heart, why did she run 
away ! 

Merrily the tiny fountain played, and merrily the 



58 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

dimples sparkled on its sunny face. John Westlock 
hurried after her. Softly the whispering water broke 
and fell ; and roguishly the dimples twinkled, as he 
stole upon her footsteps. 

Oh, foolish, panting, timid little heart, why did she 
feign to be unconsciou3 of his coming ! Why wish 
herself so far away, yet be so flutteringly happy 
there ! 

" I felt sure it was you," said John, when he over- 
took her, in the sanctuary of Garden Court. " I 
knew I couldn't be mistaken." 

She was so surprised. 

"You are waiting for your brother," said John. 
" Let me bear you company." 

So light was the touch of the coy little hand, that 
he glanced down to assure himself he had it on his 
arm. But his glance, stopping for an instant at the 
bright eyes, forgot its first design, and went no 
farther. 

They walked up and down three or four times 
speaking about Tom and his mysterious employment. 
Now that was a very natural and innocent subject, 
surely. Then why, whenever Ruth lifted up her 
eyes, did she let them fall again immediately, and 
seek the uncongenial pavement of the court ? They 
were not such eyes as shun the light ; they were not 
such eyes as require to be hoarded to enhance their 
value. They were much too precious and too 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 59 

genuine to stand in need of arts like those. Some- 
body must have been looking at them ! 

They found out Tom, though, quickly enough. 
This pair of eyes descried him in the distance, the 
moment he appeared. He was staring about him, 
as usual, in all directions but the right one ; and was 
as obstinate in not looking toward them, as if he had 
intended it. As it was plain that, being left to him- 
self, he would walk away home, John Westlock 
darted off to stop him. 

This made the approach of poor little Ruth, by her- 
self, one of the most embarrassing of circumstances. 
There was Tom, manifesting extreme surprise (he 
had no presence of mind, that Tom, on small occa- 
sions) ; there was John, making as light of it as he 
could, but explaining at the same time, with most 
unnecessary elaboration ; and here was she, coming 
toward them, with both of them looking at her, con- 
scious of blushing to a terrible extent, but trying to 
throw up her eyebrows carelessly, and pout her rosy 
lips, as if she were the coolest and most unconcerned 
of little women. 

Merrily the fountain plashed and plashed, until the 
dimples, merging into one another, swelled into a gen- 
eral smile, that covered the whole surface of the basin. 

"What an extraordinary meeting!" said Tom. 
" I should never have dreamed of seeing you two 
together here." 



6o MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" Quite accidental," John was heard to murmur. 

" Exactly," cried Tom ; "that's what I mean, you 
know. If it wasn't accidental, there would be noth- 
ing remarkable in it." 

*' To be sure," said John. 

" Such an out-of-the-way place for you to have 
met in," pursued Tom, quite delighted. " Such an 
unlikely spot !" 

John rather disputed that. On the contrary, he 
considered it a very likely spot, indeed. He was 
constantly passing to and fro there, he said. He 
shouldn't wonder if it were to happen again. His 
only wonder was that it had never happened before. 

By this time Ruth had got round on the farther 
side of her brother, and had taken his arm. She 
was squeezing it now, as much as to say, "Are you 
going to stop here all day, you dear, old blundering 
Tom ?" 

Tom answered the squeeze as if it had been a 
speech. " John," he said, " if you'll give my sister 
your arm, we'll take her between us, and walk on." 

Merrily the fountain leaped and danced, and 
merrily the smiling dimples twinkled and expanded 
more and more, until they broke into a laugh against 
the basin's rim, and vanished. , 

" Tom," said his friend, as they turned into the 
noisy street, "I have a proposition to make. It is, 
that you and your sister— if she will so far honor a 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 6 1 

poor bachelor's dwelling — give me a great pleasure, 
and come and dine with me." 

" What, to-day ?" cried Tom. 

"Yes, to-day. It's close by, you know. Pray, 
Miss Pinch, insist upon it. It will be very disinter- 
ested, for I have nothing to give you." 

" Oh ! you must not believe that, Ruth," said Tom. 
" He is the most tremendous fellow, in his house- 
keeping, that 1 ever heard of, for a single man. He 
ought to be Lord Mayor. Well ! what do you say ? 
Shall we go ?" 

" If you please, Tom," rejoined his dutiful little 
sister. 

" But I mean,'' said Tom, regarding her with smil- 
ing admiration, " is there anything you ought to wear, 
and haven't got ? I am sure I don't know, John : 
she may not be able to take her bonnet off, for any- 
thing I can tell," 

There was a great deal of laughing at this, and 
there were divers compHments from John Westlock 
— not compliments, he said at least (and really he 
was right), but good, plain, honest truths, which no 
one could deny. Ruth laughed, and all that, but 
she made no objection ; so it was an engagement. 

" If I had known it a Httle sooner,'' said John, " I 
would have tried another pudding. Not in rivalry ; 
but merely to exalt that famous one. I wouldn't on 
any account have had it made with suet." 



62 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

"Why not?" asked Tom. 

" Because that cookery book advises suet," said John 
Westlock; " and ours was made with flower and eggs." 

" Oh good gracious ! cried Tom, *' ours was made 
with flour and eggs, was it ? Ha, ha, ha ! A beef- 
steak pudding made with flour and eggs ! Why any- 
body knows better than that. / know better than 
that! Ha, ha, ha!" 

It was unnecessary to say that Tom had been pre- 
sent at the making of the pudding, and had been a 
devoted behever in it all through. Bat he was so de- 
lighted to have this joke against his busy little sister, 
and was tickled to that degree at having found her 
out, that he stopped in Temple Bar to laugh ; and it 
was no more to Tom, that he was anathematized and 
knocked about by the surly passengers, than it would 
have been to a post ; for he continued to exclaim 
with unabated good humor, " flour and eggs ! A 
beefsteak pudding made with flour and eggs !" until 
John Westlock and his sister fairly ran away from 
him, and left him to have his laugh out by himself; 
which he had; and then came dodging across the 
crowded street to them, with such sweet temper and 
tenderness (it was quite a tender joke of Tom's) 
beaming in his face, God bless it, that it might have 
purified the air, though Temple Bar had been, as in 
the golden days gone by, embeUished with a row of 
rotting human heads. 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 63 

There are snug chambers in those Inns where the 
bachelors hve, and, for the desolate fellows they pre- 
tend to be, it is quite surprising how well they get on. 
John was very pathetic on the subject of his dreary 
life, and the deplorable make-shifts and apologetic 
contrivances it involved ; but he really seemed to 
make himself pretty comfortable. His rooms were 
the perfection of neatness and convenience at any 
rate ; and if he were anything but comfortable, the 
fault was certainly not theirs. 

He had no sooner ushered Tom and his sister into 
his best room (where there was a beautiful little vase 
of fresh flowers on the table, all ready for Ruth. — 
Just as if he had expected her, Tom said), than seiz- 
ing his hat, he bustled out again, in his most ener- 
getically bustling way ; aud presently came burring 
back, as they saw thrnugh the half-opened door, at- 
tended by a fiery-faced matron attired in a crunched 
bonnet, with particularly long strings to it hanging 
down her back; in conjunction with whom, he in- 
stantly began to lay the cloth for dinner, polishing up 
the wine glasses with his own hands, brightening the 
silver top of the pepper-castor on his coat sleeve, 
drawing corks and filling decanters, with a skill and 
expedition that were quite dazzling. And as if, in 
the course of this rubbing and polishing, he had 
rubbed an enchanted lamp or a magic ring, obedient 
to which there were twenty thousand supernatural 



64 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

slaves at least, suddenly there appeared a being in a 
white waistcoat, carrying under his arm a napkin, 
and attended by another being with an oblong box 
upon his head, from which a banquet, piping hot, 
was taken out and set upon the table. 
[ Salmon, lamb, peas, innocent young potatoes, a 
cool salad, sliced cucumber, a tender duckling, and 
a tart — all there. They all came at the right time. 
Where they came from, didn't appear ; but the ob- 
long box was constantly going and coming, and 
making its arrival known to the man in the white 
waistcoat by bumping modestly against the outside of 
the door; for, after its first appearance, it entered the 
room no more. He was never surprised, this man ; he 
never seemed to wonder at the extraordinary things he 
found in the box ; but took them out with a face ex- 
pressive of a steady purpose and impenetrable charac- 
ter, and put them on the table. He was a kind man ; 
gentle in his manners, and much interested in what 
they ate and drank. He was a learned man, and 
knew the flavor of John Westlock's private sauces, 
which he softly and feelingly described, as he 
handed the little bottles round. He was a grave 
man, and a noiseless ; for dinner being done, and 
wine and fruit arranged upon the board, he van- 
ished, box and all, like something that had never 
been. 

" Didn't I say he was a tremendous fellow in his 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 65 

housekeeping ? " cried Tom. " Bless my soul ! It's 
wonderful." 

" Ah, Miss Pinch," said John. " This is the bright 
side of the life we lead in such a place. It would 
be a dismal life, indeed, if it didn't brighten up 
to-day." 

" Don't believe a word he says," cried Tom. " He 
lives here like a monarch, and wouldn't change his 
mode of life for any consideration. He only pretends 
to grumble." 

No John really did not appear to pretend ; for he 
was uncommonly earnest in his desire to have it un- 
derstood that he was as dull, solitary, and uncom- 
fortable on ordinary occasions as an unfortunate 
young man could, in reason, be. It was a wretched 
life, he said, a miserable life. He thought of getting 
rid of the chambers as soon as possible ; and 
meant, in fact, to put up a bill very shortly, 

" Well ! " said Tom Pinch, " I don't know where 
you can go, John, to be more comfortable. That's 
all I can say. What do you say, Ruth ? " 

Ruth trifled with the cherries on her plate, and 
said that she thought Mr. Westlock ought to be quite 
happy, and that she had no doubt he was. 

Ah, foolish, panting, frightened little heart, how 
timidly she said it ! 

Ah, but it would have been a good thing to have 
had a coat of invisibility, wherein to have watched 

5 



66 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

little Ruth, when she was left to herself in John West- 
lock's chambers, and John and her brother were 
talking over their wine ! The gentle way in which 
she tried to get up a little conversation with the fiery- 
faced matron in the crunched bonnet, who was wait- 
ing to attend her ; after making a desperate rally in 
regard of her dress, and attiring herself in a washed- 
out yellow gown with sprigs of the same upon it, so 
that it looked hke a tesselated work of pats of but- 
ter. That would have been pleasant. The grim and 
griffin-like inflexibility with which the fiery-faced 
matron repelled these engaging advances, as pro- 
ceeding from a hostile and dangerous power, who 
could have no business there, unless it were to de- 
prive her of a customer, or suggest what became of 
the self-consuming tea and sugar, and other general 
trifles. That would have been agreeable. The bash- 
ful, winning, glorious curiosity, with which little 
Ruth, when fiery-face was gone, peeped into the 
books and nick-nacks that were lying about, and had 
a particular interest in some delicate paper matches 
on the chimney-piece: wondering who could have 
made them. That would have been worth seeing. 
The faltering hand with which she tied those flowers 
together ; with which, almost blushing at her own 
fair self as imaged in the glass, she arranged them 
in her breast, and looking at them with her head 
aside, now half resolved to take them out again, now 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 6/ 

half resolved to leave them where they were. That 
would have been delightfid ! 

John seemed to think it all delightful : for coming 
in with Tom to tea, he took his seat beeides her like 
a man enchanted. And when the tea-service had 
been removed, and Tom, sitting down at the piano, 
became absorbed in some of his old organ tunes, he 
was still beside her at the open window, looking out 
upon the twilight. 

There is httle enough to see, in Furnival's Inn. 
It is a shady, quiet place, echoing to the footsteps of 
the stragglers who have business there ; and rather 
monotonous and gloomy on summer evenings. What 
gave it such a charm to them, that they remained at 
the window as unconscious of the flight of time as 
Tom himself, the dreamer, while the melodies which 
had so often soothed his spirit were hovering again 
about him ! What power infused into the fading 
light, the gathering darkness; the stars that here and 
there appeared ; the evening air, the City's hum and 
stir, the very chiming of the old church clocks ; such 
exquisite enthralment, that the divinest regions of the 
earth spread out before their eyes could not have 
held them captive in a stronger chain ? 

The shadows deepened, deepened, and the room 
became quite dark. Still Tom's fingers wandered 
over the keys of the piano ; and still the window had 
its pair of tenants. 



68 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her 
breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his 
reverie. 

" Dear me ! " he cried, desisting with a start. " I 
am afraid I have been very inconsiderate and un- 
polite." 

Tom little thought how much consideration and 
politeness he had shown ! 

'• Sing something to us, my dear," said Tom. " Let 
us hear your voice. Come." 

John Westlock added his entreaties with such ear- 
nestness that a flintly heart alone could have resisted 
them. Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh dear no ! 
Quite another thing. 

So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to 
sing the ballads Tom loved well. Old rhyming stories, 
with here and there a pause for a few simple chords, 
such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient 
time while looking upward for the current of some 
half-remembered legend; words of old poets, wedded 
to such measures that the strain of music might have 
been the poet's breath, giving utterance and expres- 
sion to his thoughts ; and now a melody so joyous 
and light-hearted, that the singer seemed incapable 
of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked little 
singer !) she relapsed and broke the listeners' hearts 
again; these were the simple means she used to 
please them. And that these simple means pre- 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 69 

vailed, and she did please them, let the still dark- 
ened chamber, and its long deferred illumination 
witness. 

The candles came at last, and it was time for mov- 
ing homeward. Cutting paper carefully, and rolling 
it about the stalks of those same flowers, occasioned 
some delay ; but even this was done in time, and 
Ruth was ready. 

" Good- night ! " said Tom. " A memorable and de- 
lightful visit, John ! Good-night ! " 

John thought he would walk with them. 

" No, no. Don't ! " said Tom. " What nonsense ! 
We can get home very well alone. I couldn't think 
of taking you out." 

But John said he would rather. 

"Are you sure you would rather ? " said Tom. " I 
am afraid you only say so out of politene<s." 

John being quite sure, gave his arm to Ruth, and 
led her out. Fiery-face, who was again in attendance 
acknowledged her departure with so cold a courtesy 
that it was hardly visible ; and cut Tom, dead. 

Their host was bent on walking the whole dis- 
tance, and would not listen to Tom's dissuasions. 
Happy time, happy walk, happy parting, happy 
dreams ! But there are some sweet day-dreams, so 
there are, that put the visitor of the night to shame. 

Busily the I'emple fountain murmured in the 
moonlight, while Ruth lay sleeping, with her flowers 



70 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

beside her ; and John Westlock sketched a portrait 
— whose ? — from memory. 



BrilHantly the Temple Fountain sparkled in the 
sun, and laughingly its liquid music played, and 
merrily the idle drops of water danced and danced, 
and peeping out in sport among the trees, plunged 
lightly down to hide themselves, as little Ruth and 
her companions came toward it. 

And why they came toward the Fountain at all is 
a mystery ; for they had no business there. It was 
not in their way. It was quite out of their way. 
They had no more to do with the Fountain, bless 
you, than they had with — with Love, or any out of 
the way thing of that sort. 

It was all very well for Tom and his sister to m.ake 
appointments by the Fountain, but that was quite 
another affair. Because, of course, when she had to 
wait a minute or two, it would have been very awk- 
ward for her to have had to wait in any but a toler- 
ably quiet spot; and that was as quiet a spot, every- 
tiiing considered, as they could choose. But when 
she had John Westlock to take care of her, and was 
going home with her arm in his (home being in a 
different direction altogether), their coming anywhere 
near that Fountain, was quite extraordinary. 

However, there they found themselves. And an- 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 7 1 

other extraordinary part of the matter was, that they 
seemed to have come there, by a silent understand- 
ing. Yet when they got here, they were a httle con- 
fused by being there,, which was the strangest part 
of all ; because there is nothing naturally confusing 
in a Fountain. We all know that. 

What a good old place it was ! John said. With 
quite an earnest affection for it. 

"A pleasant place indeed," said little Ruth. '* So 
shady ! " 

Oh wicked little Ruth ! 

They came to a stop when John began to praise it. 
The day was exquisite ; and stopping at all, it was 
quite natural — nothing could be more so — that they 
should glance down Garden Court ; because Garden 
Court ends in the Garden, and the Garden ends in 
the River, and that glimpse is very bright and fresh 
and shining on a summer's day. Then, oh little 
Ruth, why not look boldly at it ! Why fit that tiny 
precious, little foot into the cracked corner of an in- 
sensible old flagstone in the pavement ; and be so 
very anxious to adjust it to a nicety ! 

If the Fiery-faced matron in the crunched bonnet 
could have seen them as they walked away, how 
many years' purchase, might Fiery Face have been 
disposed to take for her situation in Furnival's Inn 
as laundress to Mr. Westlock ! 

They went away, but not through London's streets 1 



72 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Through some enchanted city, where the pavements 
were of air ; where all the rough sounds of a stirring 
town were softened into gentle music ; where every- 
thing was happy ; where there was no distance, and 
no time. There were two good-tempered burly dray- 
men letting down big butts of beer into a cellar, 
somewhere ; and when John helped her — almost 
lifted her— the lightest, easiest, neatest thing you ever 
saw — across the rope, they said he owed" them a good 
turn for giving him the chance. Celestial draymen ! 

Green pastures in the summer tide, deep-littered 
straw-yards in the winter, no stint of corn or clover, 
ever, to that noble horse who would dance on the 
pavement with a gig behind him, and who frightened 
her, and made her clasp his arm with both hands 
(both hands ; meeting one upon the other, so endear- 
ingly !), and caused her to implore him to take re- 
fuge in the pastry-cook's ; and afterwards to peep out 
at the door so shrinkingly ; and then ; looking at 
him with those eyes ; to ask him was he sure — now 
was he sure — they might go safely on ! Oh for a 
string of rampant horses ! For a lion, for a bear, for 
a mad bull, for anything to bring the little hands to- 
gether on his arm, again ! 

They talked, of course. They laughed of Tom, 
and all these changes, and the attachment Mr. Chuz- 
zlevvit had conceived for him, and the bright pros- 
pects he had in such a friend, and a great deal more 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 73 

to the same purpose. The more they talked, the 
more afraid this fluttering httle Ruth became of any 
pause ; and sooner than have a pause she would say 
the same things over again ; and if she hadn't courage 
or presence of mind enough for that (to say the truth 
she very seldom had), she was ten thousand times more 
charming and irresistible than she had been before, 

" Martin will be married very soon now, I sup- 
pose ? " said John. 

She supposed he would. Never did a bewitching 
little woman suppose anything in such a faint voice 
as Ruth supposed that. 

But feeling that another of those alarming pauses 
were approaching, she remarked that he would have 
a beautiful wife. Didn't Mr. Westlock think so ? 

" Ye — yes," said John, " oh, yes." 

She feared he was rather hard to please — he spoke 
so coldly. 

"Rather say already pleased," said John. "I 
have scarcely seen her. I had no care to see her. 
I had no eyes for her, this morning." 

Oh, good gracious ! 

It was well they had reached their destination. 
She never could have gone any further. It would 
have been impossible to walk in such a tremble. 

Tom had not come in. They entered the triangu- 
lar parlor together, and alone. Fiery Face, Fiery 
Face how many years* purchase now ! 



74 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

She sat down on the little sofa, and untied her bon- 
net-strings. He sat down by her side, and very- 
near her ; very, very near her. Oh, rapid, swelUng, 
bursting httle heart, you knew that it would come to 
this, and hoped it would. Why beat so wildly, heart ! 

" Dear Ruth ! Sweet Ruth ! If I had loved you 
less, I could have told you that I have loved you, 
long ago. I have loved you from the first. There 
never was a creature in the world more truly loved 
than you, dear Ruth, by me ! " 

She clasped her little hands before her face. The 
gushing tears of joy, and pride, and hope, and inno- 
cent affection, would not be restrained. Fresh from 
her full young heart they came to answer him. 

" My dear love ! If this is — I almost dare to hope 
it is, now — not painful or distressing to you, you 
make me happier than I can tell, or you imagine. 
Darling Ruth ! My own good, gentle, winning 
Ruth ! I hope I know the value of your heart, I 
hope I know the worth of your angel nature. Let 
me try and show you that I do ; and you will make 
me happier, Ruth " 

"Not happier," she sobbed, " than you make me. 
No one can be happier John, than you make me ! " 

Fiery Face, provide yourself! The usual wages 
or the usual warning. It's all over, Fiery Face. We 
needn't trouble you any further. 

The little hands could meet each other now, with- 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 75 

out a rampant horse to urge them. There was no 
occasion for Hons, bears, or mad bulls. • It could all 
be done, and infinitely better, without their assist- 
ance. No burly draymen or big butts of beer, were 
wanted for apologies. No apology at all was wanted. 
The soft light touch fell coyly, but quite naturally 
upon the lover's shoulder ; the delicate waist, the 
drooping head, the blushing cheek, the beautiful 
eyes, the exquisite mouth itself, were all as natural 
as possible. If all the horses in Araby had run 
away at once, they couldn't have improved upon 
it. 

They soon began to talk of Tom again. 

" I hope he will be glad to hear of it ! " said John, 
with sparkling eyes. 

Ruth drew the little hands a little tighter when he 
said it, and looked up seriously into his face. 

" I am never to leave him, am 1, dear .? I could 
never leave Tom. I am sure you know that." 

"Do you think I would ask you?" he returned, 
with a — well ! Never rnind with what. 

" I am sure you never would," she answered, the 
bright tears standing in her eyes. 

'■' And I will swear it, Ruth, my darling, if you 
please. Leave Tom ! That would be a strange be- 
ginning. Leave Tom, dear ! If Tom and we be not 
inseparable, and Tom (God bless him) have not all 
honor and all love in our home, my little wife, may 



76 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

that home never be ! And that's a strong oath, 
Ruth." 

Shall it be recorded how she thanked him ? Yes, 
it shall. In all simplicity and innocence and purity 
of heart, yet with a timid, graceful, half-determined 
hesitation, she set a little rosy seal upon the vow, 
whose color was reflecting in her face, and flashed 
up to the braiding of her dark brown hair. 

" Tom will be so happy, and so proud, and glad," 
she said, clasping her little hands. " But so sur- 
prised ! I am sure he has never thought of such a 
thing." 

Of course John asked her immediately — because 
you know they were in that foolish state when great 
allowances inust be made — when sJie had begun to 
think of such a thing, and this made a little diversion 
in their talk ; a charming diversion to them, but not 
so interesting to us ; at the end of which, they came 
to Tom again. 

" Ah ! dear Tom ! " said Ruth. " I suppose I 
ought to tell you everything now. I should have no 
secrets from you. Should I, John, love ? " 

It is of no use saying how that preposterous John 
answered her, because he answered in a manner 
which is untranslatable on paper, though highly 
satisfactory in itself. But what he conveyed was, 
No, no, no, sweet Ruth ; or something to that effect. 

Then she told him Tom's great secret ; not exactly 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 77 

saying how she had found it out, but leaving him to 
understand it if he hked ; and John was sadly 
grieved to hear it, and was full of sympathy and sor- 
row. But they would try, he said, only the more, on 
this account, to make him happy, and to beguile 
him with his favorite pursuits. And then, in all the 
confidence of such a time, he told her how he had a 
capital opportunity of establishing himself in his old 
profession in the country ; and how he had been 
thinking, in the event of that happiness coming upon 
him which had actually come— there was another 
slight diversion here — how he had been thinking that 
it would afford occupation to Tom, and enable them 
to live together in the easiest manner, without any 
sense of dependence on Tom's part ; and to be as 
happy as the day was long. And Ruth receiving 
this with joy, they went on catering for Tom to that 
extent that they had already purchased him a select 
library and built him an organ, on which he was 
performing with the greatest satisfaction ; when they 
heard him knocking at the door. 

Though she longed to tell him what had happened, 
poor little Ruth was greatly agitated by his arrival ; 
the more so because she knew that Mr. Chuzzlewit 
was with him. So she said, all in a tremble : 

" What shall I do, dear John ! I can't bear tha.t 
he should hear it from anyone but me, and I could 
not tell him, unless we were alone." 



y8 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

"Do, my love," said John, "whatever is natural 
to you on the impulse of the moment, and I am sure 
it will be right." 

He had hardly time to say thus much, and Ruth 
had hardly time to — ^just to get a little farther off — 
upon the sofa, when Tom and Mr. Chuzzlewit came 
in. Mr. Chuzzlewit came first, and Tom was a few 
seconds behind him. 

Now Ruth had resolved that she would beckon 
Tom up stairs after a short time, and would tell him 
in his little bedroom. But when she saw his dear 
old face come in, her heart was so touched that she 
ran into his arms, and laid her head down on his 
breast, and sobbed out, " Bless me, Tom ! My 
dearest brother ! '' 

Tom looked up, in surprise, and saw John West- 
lock close beside him, holding out his hand. 

" John ! " cried Tom. " John ! " 

" Dear Tom," said his friend, " give me your hand. 
We are brothers, Tom." 

Tom wrung it with all his force, embraced his sis- 
ter fervently, and put her in John Westlock's arms. 

" Don't speak to me, John. Heaven is very good 

to us. I " Tom could find no further utterance, 

but left the room ; and Ruth went after him. 

And when they came back, which they did by and 
by, she looked more beautiful, and Tom more good 
and true (if that were possible) than ever. And 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 79 

though Tom could not speak upon the subject even 
now, being yet too newly glad, he put both his hands 
in both of John's with emphasis sufficient for the 
best speech ever spoken. 

" I am glad you chose to-day," said Mr. Chuzzle- 
wit to John, with the same knowing smile as when 
they had left him. " I thought you would. I hoped 
Tom and I lingered behind a discreet time. It's so 
long since I had any practical knowledge of these 
subjects, that I have been anxious, I assure you." 

" Your knowledge is still pretty accurate, sir," re- 
turned John laughing, "if it lead you to foresee 
what would happen to-day." 

" Why, I am not sure, Mr. Westlock," said the old 
man, " that any great spirit of prophecy was needed, 
after seeing you and Ruth together. Come hither, 
pretty one. See what Tom and I purchased this 
morning, while you were dealing in exchange with 
that young merchant there." 

The old man's way of seating her beside him, and 
humoring his voice as if she were a child, was whim- 
sical enough, but full of tenderness, and not ill 
adapted, somehow, to little Ruth. 

"See here!" he said, taking a case from his 
pocket, " what a beautiful necklace. Ah ! How it 
glitters ! Earrings, too, and bracelets, and a zone 
for your waist. This set is yours, and Mary has 
another like it. Tom couldn't understand why I 



80 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

wanted two. What a short-sighted Tom ! Earrings 
and bracelets, and a zone for your waist ! Ah ! 
beautiful ! Let us see how brave they look. Ask 
Mr. Westlock to clasp them on." 

It was the prettiest thing to see her holding out her 
round, white arms ; and John (oh deep, deep John !) 
pretending that the bracelet was very hard to fasten ; 
it was the prettiest thing to see her girding on the 
precious little zone, and yet obliged to have assist- 
ance because her fingers were m such terrible per- 
plexity ; it was the prettiest thing to see her so con- 
fused and bashful, with the smiles and blushes play- 
ing brightly on her face, hke the sparkhng light upon 
the jewels ; it was the prettiest thing that you would 
see, in the common experiences of a twelve-month, 
rely upon it. 

" The set of jewels and the wearer are so well 
matched," said the old man, " that I don't know 
which becomes the other most. Mr. Westlock could 
tell me, I have no doubt, but I'll not ask him, for he 
is bribed. Health to wear them my dear, and happi- 
ness to make you forgetful of them, except as a re- 
membrance from a loving friend ! " 

He patted her upon the cheek, and said to Tom : 

" I must play the part of a father here, Tom, also. 
There are not many fathers who marry two such 
daughters on the same day ; but we will overlook 
the improbability for the gratification of an old man's 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 8 1 

fancy. I may claim that much indulgence," he 
added, "for I have gratified few fancies enough in 
my life tending to the happiness of others, Heaven 
knows ! " 

These various proceedings had occupied so much 
time, and they fell into such a pleasant conversation 
now, that it was within a quarter of an hour of the 
time appointed for dinner before any of them thought 
about it. A hackney-coach soon carried them to the 
Temple, however, and there they found everything 
prepared for their reception. 

But ah ! the happiness of strolling home at night — 
obstinate little Ruth, she wouldn't hear of riding ! — 
as they had done on that dear night, from Furnival's 
Inn ! The happiness of being able to talk about it, 
and confide their happiness to each other! The 
happiness of stating all their little plans to Tom, and 
seeing his bright face grow brighter as they spoke ! 

When they reached home, Tom left John and his 
sister in the parlor, and went upstairs to his own 
room, under pretence of seeking a book. And Tom 
actually winked to himself, when he got up stairs, he 
thought it such a deep thing to have done. 

"They liked to be by themselves, of course," said 
Tom ; " and I came away so naturally, that I have 
no doubt they are expecting me, every moment, to 
return. That's capital ! " 
6 



82 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

But he had not sat reading very long, when he 
heard a tap at his door. 

" May I come in ? " said John. 

" Oh, surely ! " Tom replied. 

" Don't leave us, Tom. Don't sit by yourself. 
We want to make you merry ; not melancholy." 

"My dear friend," said Tom, with a cheerful 
smile. 

" Brother, Tom. Brother." 

"My dear brother," said Tom ; "there is no dan- 
ger of my being melancholy, when I know that you 
and Ruth are so blest in each other ! I think I can 
find my tongue to-night, John,'' he added, after a 
moment's pause. " But I never can tell you what 
unutterable joy this day has given me. It would be 
unjust to you to speak of your having chosen a 
portionless girl, for I feel that you know her worth ; I 
am sure you know her worth. Nor will it diminish 
in your estimation, John, which money might." 

" Which money would, Tom," he returned. " Her 
worth ? Oh, who could see her here, and not love 
her ! Who could know her, Tom, and not honor 
her ! Who could ever stand possessed of such a 
heart as hers, and grow indifferent to the treasure ! 
Who could feel the rapture that I feel to-day, and 
love as 1 love her, Tom, without knowing something 
of her worth ! Your joy unutterable ! No, no, Tom, 
It's mine, it's mine." 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 83 

"No, no, John," said Tom. "It's mine, it's 
mine." 

Their friendly contention was brought to a close 
by little Ruth, herself, who came peeping in at the 
door. And oh, the look, the glorious, half-proud, 
half-timid look she gave Tom, when her lover drew 
her to his side ! As much as to say, " Yes indeed, 
Tom, he will do it. But then he has a right, you 
know. Because I am fond of him, Tom." 

As to Tom, he was perfectly delighted. He could 
have sat and looked at them, just as they were, for 
hours. 

" I have told Tom, love, as we agreed, that we 
are not going to permit him to run away, and that 
we cannot possibly allow it. The loss of one person, 
and such a person as Tom, too, out of our small 
household of three, i'=; not to be endured ; and so I 
have told him. Whether he is considerate, or 
whether he is only selfish, I don't know. But he 
needn't be considerate, for he is not the least re- 
straint upon us. Is he, dearest Ruth ? " 

Well ! He really did not seem to be any particu- 
lar restraint upon them. Judging from what en- 
sued. 

Was it folly in Tom to be so pleased by their 
remembrance of him, at such a time ? Was their 
graceful love a folly, were their dear caresses fol- 
lies, was their lengthened parting folly ? Was it 



84 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

folly in him to watch her window from the street, 
and rate its scantiest gleam of light above all 
diamonds : folly in her to breathe his name upon 
her knees, and pour out her heart before that Being, 
from whom such hearts and such affections come ? 

If these be follies, then Fiery Face go on and pros- 
per ! If they be not, then Fiery Face avaunt ! 
But set the crunched bonnet at some other single 
gentleman, in any case, for one is lost to thee for 
ever ! 



DOMBEY AND SON. 



85 



DOMBEY AND SON. 



TDAUL had never risen from his little bed. He 
lay there, listening to the noises in the street, 
quite tranquilly ; not caring much how the time 
went, but watching it and watching everything 
about him with observing eyes. 

When the sunbeams struck into his room through 
the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite 
wall like golden water, he knew that evening was 
coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. 
As the reflection died away, and a gleam went creep- 
ing up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen, 
deepen, into night. Then he thought how the long 
streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peace- 
ful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a 
strange tendency to wander to the river, which he 
knew was flowing through the great city ; and now 
he thought how black it was, and how deep it 
would look, reflecting the host of stars — and more 
than al], how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea. 

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the 
street became so rare that he could hear them com- 

87 



SS MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

ing, count them as they paused, and lose them in 
the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the 
many-colored ring about the candle, and wait pa- 
tiently for day. His only trouble was the swift and 
rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop 
it — to stem it with his childish hands — or choke it 
away with sand — and when he saw it coming on, 
resistless, he cried out ! But a word from Florence, 
who was always at his side, restored him to himself; 
and leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told 
Floy of his dream, and smiled. 

When day began to dawn again, he watched for 
the sun ; and when its cheerful light began to sparkle 
in the room, he pictured to himself — pictured ! he 
saw — the high church towers rising up into the morn- 
ing sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life 
once more, the river glisteningas it rolled (but rolling 
fast as ever), and the country bright with dew. Famihar 
sounds and cries came by degrees into the streets be- 
low ; the servants in the house were roused and busy ; 
faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his at- 
tendants softly how he was. Paul always answered 
for himself, " I am better. I am a great deal better, 
thank you ! Tell papa so ! " 

By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the 
day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people 
passing and re-passing; and would fall asleep or be 
troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again — the 



DOMBEY AND SON. 89 

child could hardly tell whether this were in his 
sleeping or waking moments — of that rushing 
river. " Why, will it never stop, Floy?'' he would 
som.etimes ask her. " It is bearing me away, I 
think!" 

But Floy could always soothe and re-assure him ; 
and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head 
down on his pillow, and take some rest. 

" You are always watching me, Floy. Let me 
watch j/^z/, now !" They would prop him up with 
cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would 
recline the while she lay beside him : bending for- 
ward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those 
who were near that she was tired, and how she had 
sat up so many nights beside him. 

Thus the flush of the day, in its heat and hght, 
would gradually decline ; and again the golden water 
would be dancing on the wall. 

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors 
— they used to assemble down- stairs, and come up 
together — and the room was so quiet, and Paul was 
so observant of them (though he never asked of any- 
body what they said), that he even knew the differ- 
ence in the sound of their watches. But his interest 
centred in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat 
on the side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say 
long ago, that that gentleman had been with his 
mamma when she clasped Florence in her arms, and 



90 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

died. And he could not forget it, now. He liked 
him for it. He was not afraid. 

The people round him changed as unaccountably 
as on the first night at Dr. Blember's — except Flor- 
ence ; Florence never changed — and what had been 
Sir Parker Peps, was now his father, sitting with his 
head upon his hand. Old Mrs. Pipchin dozing in an 
easy chair, often changed to Miss Tox, or his aunt ; 
and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, 
and see what happened next without emotion. But 
this figure with its head upon its hand returned so 
often, and remained so long, and sat so still and sol- 
emn, never speaking, never beings poken to, and 
rarely lifting up its face, that Paul began to wonder 
languidly, if it were real ; and in the night-time saw 
it sitting there, with fear. 

" Floy ! " he said. " What is that? " 

"Where, dearest?" 

" There ! at the bottom of the bed." 
"" There's nothing there, except papa! " 

The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming 
to the bedside, said : " My own boy ! Don't you 
know me? " 

Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was this 
his father? But the face so altered to his thinking, 
thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in pain ; and 1 e- 
fore he could reach out both his hands to take it be- 
tween them, and draw it toward him, the figure 



DOMBEY AND SON. QI 

turned quickly from the little bed, and went out at 
the door, 

Paul looked at Florence with fluttering heart, but 
he knew 'what she was going to say, and stopped her 
with his face against her lips. The next time he ob- 
served the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he 
called out to it. 

" Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa! Indeed I 
am quite happy ! " 

His father coming and bending down to him — 
which he did quickly, and without first pausing by 
the bedside — Paul held him round the neck, and re- 
peated these words to him several times, and very 
earnestly ; and Paul never saw him in his room again 
at any time, whether it were day or night, but he 
called out, " Don't be so sorry for me ! Indeed I am 
quite happy ! " This was the beginning of his. saymg 
in the morning that he was a great deal better, and 
that they were to tell his father so. 

How many times the golden water danced up- 
on the wall ; how many nights the dark river 
rolled toward the sea in spite of him ; Paul never 
counted, never sought to know. If their kindness or 
his sense of it, could have increased, they were more 
kind, and he more grateful every day ; but whether 
they were many days or few, appeared of little mo- 
ment now, to the gentle boy. 

One night he had been thinking of his mother, 



92 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

and her picture in the drawing-room down stairs, 
and thought she must have loved sweet Florence 
better than his father did, to have held her in her 
arms when she felt that she was dying — for even he, 
her brother, who had such dear love for her, could 
have no greater wish than that. The train of 
thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever 
seen his mother ; for he could not remember whether 
they had told him, yes or no, the river running very 
fast, and confusing his mind. 

"Floy, did I ever see mamma?" 

" No, darling, why ! " 

" Did I ever see any kind face, like mamma's 
looking at me when I was a baby, Floy ? " 

He asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision 
of a face before him. 

" Oh yes, dear ! " 

"Whose, Floy?" 

" Your old nurse's. Often." 

"And where is my old nurse? "said Paul. "Is 
she dead too ? Floy, are we all dead, except 
you ?" 

There was a hurry in the room, for an instant — 
longer, perhaps ; but it seemed no more — then all 
was still again ; and Florence, with her face quite 
colorless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. 
Her arm trembled very much. 

" Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please ! " 



DOMBEY AND SON. 93 

" She is not here, darling. She shall come to-mor- 
row," 

"Thank you, Floy!" 

Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell 
asleep. When he awoke, the sun was high, and the 
broad day was clear and warm. He lay a little look- 
ing at the windows, which were open, and the cur- 
tains rustling in the air, and waving to and fro : then 
he said, " Floy, is it to-morrow ? Is she come ? " 

Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps 
it was Susan. Paul thought he heard her telling him 
when he had closed his eyes again, that she would soon 
be back ; but he did not open them to see. She kept 
her word — perhaps she had never been away — but 
the next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps 
on the stairs, and then Paul woke — woke mind and 
body — and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now 
about him. There was no gray mist before them, as 
there had been sometimes in the night. He knew 
them every one, and called them by their names. 

" And who is this ? Is this my old nurse ? '' said 
the child, regarding with a radiant smile; a figure 
coming in. 

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those 
tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy 
her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other 
woman would have stooped down by his bed, and 
taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and 



94 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other 
woman would have forgotten everybody there but 
him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. 

" Floy ! this is a kind good face ! " said Paul. " I 
am glad to see it again. Don't go away old nurse I 
Stay here." 

His senses were all quickened, and he heard a 
name he knew. 

"Who was that, who said 'Walter ?" ' he asked, 
looking around. " Some one said Walter. Is he here ? 
I should like to see him very much." 

Nobody replied directly ; but his father soon said 
to Susan, " Call him back, then : let him come up ! " 
After a short pause of expectation, during which he 
looked with smiling interest and wonder, on his nurse, 
and saw that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was 
brought into the room. His open face and manner, 
and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a favor- 
ite with Paul ; and when Paul saw him, he stretched 
out his hand, and said " Good-by ! '' 

'"Good-by, my child! " cried Mrs. Pipchin hurry- 
ing to his bed's head, " Not good-by? " 

For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful 
face with which he had so often gazed upon her in 
his corner by the fire. " Ah yes," he said placidly, 
" good-by ! Walter dear, good-by ! " — turning his 
head to where he stood, and putting out his hand 
again. " Where is papa? " 



DOM BEY AND SON. 95 

He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before 
the words had parted from his Hps. 
(■ " Remember Walter, dear papa," he whispered, 
looking in his face. " Remember Walter. I was fond 
of Walter ! " The feeble hand waved in the air, as if 
it cried " good-by ! " to Walter once again. 

" Now lay me down," he said, " and Floy, come 
close to me, and let me see you ! " 
I Sister and brother wound their arms around each 
[ other, and the golden light came streaming in, and 

fell upon them, locked together. 
I " How fast the river runs, between its green banks 
1 and the rushes, Floy ! But 'tis very near the sea. I 
I hear the waves ! They always said so ! " 
1 Presently he told her that the motion of the boat 
^ upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green 
: the banks were now, how bright the flowers growing 
on them, and how tall the rushes ! Now the boat was 
out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now there 

was a shore before him. He stood on the bank ! 

He put his hands together, as he had been used to. 
do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do 
it ; but they saw him fold them so behind her neck. 
" Mamma is like you, Floy. 1 know her by the 
face ! But tell them that the print upon the stairs 
at school is not divine enough. The light about the 
head is shining on me as I go ! " 



96 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, 
and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old 
fashion ! The fashion that came in with our first 
garments, and will last unchanged until our race has 
run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up 
like a scroll. The old, old fashion — Death ! 

Oh thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion 
yet, of Immortality ! And look upon us, angels of 
young children, with regards not quite estranged, 
when the swift river bears us to the ocean! 



OLIVER TWIST. 



97 



OLIVER TWIST. 



T T was nearly two hours before daybreak ; that 
time which in the autumn of the year, may be 
truly called the dead of night ; when the streets are 
silent and deserted ; when even sounds appear to 
slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered 
home to dream ; it was at this still and silent hour, 
that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so 
distorted and pale, and eyes so red and bloodshot, 
that he looked less like a man, than hke some hide- 
ous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by 
an evil spirit. 

He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in 
an old torn coverlet, with his face turned toward a 
wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. 
His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed 
in thought, he bit his long black nails, he disclosed 
among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should 
have been a dog's or a rat's. 

Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah 
Claypole, fast asleep. Toward him the old man. 

99 



100 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then 
brought them back again to the candle ; which with 
a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot 
grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly- 
showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. 

Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow 
of his notable scheme ; hatred of the girl who had 
dared to palter with strangers ; and utter distrust of 
the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up ; bitter 
disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes ; 
the fear of detection, and ruin, and death ; and a 
fierce and deadly rage kindled by all ; these were the 
passionate considerations which, following close upon 
each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot 
through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought 
and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. 

He sat without changing his attitude in the least, 
or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until 
his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep 
in the street. 

" At last,'' he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered 
mouth. " At last! " 

The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept up 
stairs to the door, and presently returned accom- 
panied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a 
bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing 
back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly 
frame of Sikes. 



OLIVER TWIST. lOI 

" There ! " he said, laying the bundle on the table. 
" Take care of that, and do the most you can with 
it. It's been trouble enough to get ; I thought I 
should have been here three hours ago." 

Fagin laid his hand upon the buudle, and locking 
it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. 
But he did not take his eyes off the robber for an in- 
stant, during this action ; and now that they sat over 
against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at 
him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face 
so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, 
that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his 
chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright. 

" Wot now? " cried Sikes. " Wot do you look at 
a man so for ? " 

Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trem- 
bling forefinger in the air ; but his passion was so great, 
that the power of speech was for the moment gone. 

" Damme! " said Sikes, feeling in his breast with 
a look of alarm. " He's gone mad, I must look to 
myself here." 

" No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. " It's 
not — you're not the person, Bill. I've no — no fault 
to find with you." 

" Oh, you haven't, haven't you ? " said Sikes, look- 
ing sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol 
into a more convenient pocket. "That's luck — for 
one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." 



102 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, draw- 
ing his chair nearer, " will make you worse than me." 

" Ay ? " returned the robber with an incredulous air. 
"Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm 
lost." 

" Lost ! " cried Fagin. " She has pretty well set- 
tled that, in her own mind, already." 

Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity in- 
to the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory expla- 
nation of the riddle the^e, clenched his coat collar in 
his huge hand and shook him soundly. 

" Speak, will you! " he said ; " or if you don't, it 
shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and 
say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with 
it, you thundering old cur, out with it ! '' 

" Suppose that lad that's lying there " Fagin 

began. 

Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, 
as if he had not previously observed him. " Well ! " 
he said, resuming his former position. 

" Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, " was to peach 
— to blow upon us all — first seeking out the right 
folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting 
with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, de- 
scribe every mark that they might know us by, and 
the crib where we might be most easily taken. Sup- 
pose he were to do all this, and besides to blow up- 
on a plant we've all been in, more or less — of his 



OLIVER TWIST. IO3 

own fancy ; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged 
by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, 
— but of his own fancy ; to please his own taste ; 
steahng out at nights to find those most interested 
against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me ? " 
cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. " Suppose 
he did all this, what then ? " 

" What then ! " replied Sikes ; with a tremendous 
oath. " If he was left ahve till I came, I'd grind his 
skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many 
grains as there are hairs upon his head." 

" What if /did it ! " cried Fagin almost in a yell. 
" /, that know so much, and could hang so many 
besides myself!" 

" I don't know,'' replied Sikes, clenching his teeth 
and turning white at the mere suggestion. " I'd do 
something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons: 
and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you 
with them in the open court, and beat your brains 
out afore the people. I should have such strength," 
muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, " that 
I could smash your head as if a loaded wagon had 
gone over it.'* 

"You would?" 

" Would I ! " said the housebreaker. " Try me." 

" If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or " 

•' I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. 
"Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." 



104 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning 
him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, 
and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant for- 
ward in his chair : looking on with his hands upon 
his knees, as if wondering much what all this ques- 
tioning and preparation was to end in. 

" Bolter, Bolter ! Poor lad ! " said Fagin, looking 
up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and 
speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. " He's 
tired — tired with watching for her so long, — watch- 
ing for her, Bill." 

" Wot d'ye mean ?" asked Sikes, drawing back. 

Fagin made no answer, but bending over the 
sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. 
When his assumed name had been repeated several 
times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy, 
yawn, looked sleepily about him. 

" Tell me that again — once again, just for him to 
hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. 

" Tell yer what ? " asked the sleepy Noah, shaking 
himself pettishly. 

" That about — Nancy," said Fagin, clutching Sikes 
by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house 
before he had heard enough. " You followed her ? " 

"Yes." 

" To London Bridge?" 

"Yes." 

" Where she met two people ? " 



OLIVER TWIST. 10$ 

" So she did.'' 

'* A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of 
her own accord before, who asked her to give up all 
her pals, and Monks first, which she did — and to de- 
scribe him, which she did — and to tell her what house 
it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did — 
and where it could be best watched from, which she 
did — and what time the people went there, which she 
did. She did all this. She told it all, every word 
without a threat, without a murmur — she did — did 
she not ? " cried Fagin, half mad with fury. 

"All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. 
" That's just what it was ! '' 

" What did they say, about last Sunday ?" 

" About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. 
" Why 1 told yer that before." 

"Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening 
his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand 
aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. 

" They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew 
more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception 
who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't 
come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she 
couldn't." 

" Why— why ? Tell him that." 

"Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, 
the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. 

" What more of him ? " cried Fagin. " What more 



I06 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

of the man she had told them of before ! Tell him 
that, tell him that." 

"Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of 
doors unless he knew where she was going to," said 
Noah ; " and so the first time she went to see the 
lady, she — ha ! ha ! ha ! it made me laugh when she 
said it, that it did — she gave him a drink of lauda- 
num ! " 

" Hell's fire ! " cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from 
the Jew. " Let me go ! " 

Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the 
room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. 

"Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. 
"A word. Only a word." 

The word would not have been exchanged, but 
that the housebreaker was unable to open the door : 
on which he was expending fruitless oaths and vio- 
lence, when the Jew came panting up. 

" Let me out," said Sikes. " Don't speak to me ; 
it's not safe. Let me out, I say ! " 

" Hear me speak a word,'' rejoined Fagin, laying 
his hand upon the lock. " You won't be " 

" Well," repHed the other. 

"You won't be— too — violent, Bill?" 

The day was breaking, and there was light enough 
for the men to see each other's faces. They ex- 
changed one brief glance ; there was a fire in the 
eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. 



OLIVER TWIST. lO/ 

" I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all dis- 
guise was now useless, " not too violent for safety. 
Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold." 

Sikes made no reply ; but, pulling open the door, 
of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the 
feilent streets. 

Without one pause, or moment's consideration ; 
without once turning his head to the right or left, or 
raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the 
ground, but looking straight before him with savage 
resolution : his teeth so tightly compressed that the 
strained jaw seemed starting through his skin ; the 
robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a 
word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own 
door. He opened it, softly, with a key ; strode lightly 
up the stairs ; and entering his own room, double- 
locked the door, and lilting a heavy table against it, 
drew back the curtain of the bed. 

The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had 
roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with 
a hurried and startled look. 

" Get up ! " said the man. 

" It is you. Bill ! ' said the girl, with an expression 
of pleasure at his return. 

" It is," was the reply. " Get up.'' 

There was a candle burning, but the man hastily 
drew it from the candle-stick, and hurled it under the 
grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, 
the girl rose to undraw the curtain. 



I08 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

''Let it be," said Sikes. thrusting his hand before 
her. " There's hght enough for wot I've got to do." 

"Bill," said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, 
"why do you look like that at me ! " 

The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, 
with dilated nostrils and heaving breast ; and then, 
grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her 
into the middle of the room, and looking once toward 
the door, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth. 

" Bill, Bill ! " gasped the girl, wrestling with the 
strength of mortal fear, — '' I — I won't scream or cry 
— not once — hear me — speak to me — tell me what I 
have done ! " 

" You know, you she devil ! " returned the robber, 
suppressing his breath. " You were watched to- 
night : every word you said was heard." 

" Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I 
spared yours," -rejoined the girl, clinging to him. 
" Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me. 
Oh ! think of all 1 have given up, only this one night, 
for you. You sJiall have time to think, and save 
yourself this crime ; I will not loose my hold, you 
cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God's sake, 
for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood ! 
I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have ! " 

The man struggled violently, to release his arms ; 
but those of the girl were clasped round his, and tear 
her as he would, he could not tear them away. 



OLIVER TWIST. IO9 

" Bill," cried the girl striving to lay her head upon 
his breast, " the gentleman and that dear lady, told 
me to-night of a home in some foreign country where 
I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me 
see them again, and beg them, on my knees, to show 
the same mercy and goodness to you ; and let us 
both leave this dreadful place, and far apart lead 
better lives, and forget how we have lived, except in 
prayers, and never see each other more. It is never 
too late to repent. They told me so — I feel it now — 
but we must have time — a little, little time ! " 

The house-breaker freed one arm, and grasped his 
pistol. The certainty of immediate detection if he fired, 
flashed across his mind even in the midst of his fury; 
and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon , 
upon the upturned face that almost touched his own. 

She staggered and fell : nearly blinded with the 
blood that rained down from a deep gash in her fore- 
head ; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her 
knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief, 
holding it up, in her folded hands, as high toward 
Heaven as her feeble strength would allow, breathed 
one prayer for mercy to her maker. 

It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The mur- 
derer staggering backward to the wall, and shutting 
out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and 
struck her down. 



no MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, 
had been committed within wide London's bounds 
since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all 
the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morn- 
ing air, that was the foulest and most cruel. 

The sun — the bright sun, that brings back, not 
light alone, but new life, and hope, and freshness to 
man — burst upon the crowded city in clear and radiant 
glory. Through costly-colored glass and paper- 
mended window, through cathedral dome and rotten 
crevice, it shed its equal ray. It lightened up the room 
where the murdered woman lay. It did. He tried 
to shut it out, but it would stream in. If the sight 
had been a ghastly one in the dull morning, what 
was it, now, in all that brilliant light ! 

He had not moved ; he had been afraid to stir. 
There had been a moan and a motion of the hand ; 
and, with terror added to rage, he had struck and 
struck again. Once he threw a rug over it ; but it 
was worse to fancy the eyes, and imagine them mov- 
ing toward him, than to see them glaring upward, as 
if watching the reflection of the pool of gore that 
quivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling. 
He had plucked it off again. And there was the 
body — mere flesh and blood, no more — but such 
flesh, and so much blood ! 

He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the 
club into it. There was hair upon the end, which 



OLIVER TWIST. I 1 1 

blazed and shruuk into a light cinder, and, caught 
by the air, whirled up the chimney, Even that 
frightened him, sturdy as he was; but he held the 
weapon till it broke, and then piled it on the coals to 
burn away, and smoulder into ashes. He washed 
himself, and rubbed his clothes ; there were spots 
that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces 
out, and burnt them. How those stains were dis- 
persed about the room ! The very feet of the dog 
were bloody. 

All this time he had, never once, turned his back 
upon the corpse ; no not for a moment. Such prep- 
arations completed, he moved, backward, toward the 
door: dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil 
his feet anew and carry out new evidences of the 
crime into the streets. He shut the door softly, 
locked it, took the key, and left the house. 

He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, 
to be sure that nothing was visible from the outside. 
There was the curtain still drawn, which she would 
have opened, to admit the light she never saw again. 
It lay nearly under there. He knew that. God, 
how the sun poured down upon the very spot ! 

The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to 
have got free of the room. He whistled on the dog, 
and walked rapidly away. 

He went through Islington ; strode up the hill at 
Highgate on which stands the stone in honor of 



112 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Whittington ; turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady 
of purpose, and uncertain where to go ; he struck off 
to the right again, almost as soon as he began to de- 
scend it ; and taking the foot-path across the fields, 
skirted Caen Wood, and so came out on Hampstead 
Heath. Traversing the hollow by the Vale of 
Heath, he mounted the opposite bank, and crossing 
the road which joins the villages of Hampstead and 
Highgate, made along the remaining portion of the 
heath to the fields at North End, in one of which he 
laid himself down under a hedge, and slept. 

Soon he was up again, and away, — not far into the 
country, but back towards London by the high-road 
— then back again — then over another part of the 
same ground as he already traversed — then wander- 
ing up and down in fields, and lying on ditches' 
brinks to rest, and starting up to make for some 
other spot, and do the same, and ramble on again. 
Where could he go, that was near and not too 
public, to get some meat and drink ? Hendon. 
That was a good place, not far off, and out of most 
people's way. Thither he directed his steps, — run- 
ning sometimes, and sometimes, with a strange per- 
versity, loitering at a snail's pace, or stopping alto- 
gether and idly breaking the hedges with his stick. 
But when he got there, all the people he met — the 
very children at the doors — seemed to view him with 
suspicion. Back he turned agam, without the cour- 




BILL SJKES. 



OLIVER TWIST. II3 

aj^^e to purchase bit or drop, though he had tasted no 
food for many hours ; and once more he hngcrcd on 
the Heath, uncertain where to go. 

He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and 
still came back to the old place. Morning and noon 
had passed, and the day was on the wane, and still 
he rambled to and fro, and up and down, and round 
and round, and still lingered about the same spot. 
At last he got away, and shaped his course for Hat- 
field. 

It was nine o'clock at night, when the man, quite 
tired out, and the ciog, limping and lame from the 
unaccustomed exercise, turned down the hill by the 
church of the cjuiet village, and plodding along the 
little street, crept into a small public-house, whose 
scanty light had guided them to the spot. There 
was a fire in the tap-room, and some country labor- 
ers were drinking before it. They made room for 
the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest corner 
and ate and drank alone, or rather with his dog; to 
whom he cast a morsel of food from time to time. 

The conversation of the men assembled here, 
turned upon the neighboring land, and farmers; and 
when those topics were exhausted, upon the age of 
some old man who had been buried on the previous 
Sunday ; the young men present considering him 
very old, and the old men present declaring him to 
have been c|uite young — not older, one white-haired 
8 



I 14 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

grandfather said, than he was — with ten or fifteen 
years of hfe in him at least — if he had taken care ; if 
he had taken care. 

There was nothing to attract attention, or excite 
alarm in this. The robber, after paying his reckon- 
ing, sat silent and unnoticed in his corner, and had 
almost dropped asleep, when, he was half awakened 
by the noisy entrance of a new-comer. 

This was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half 
mountebank, who travelled about the country on 
foot to vend hones, strops, razors, washballs, harness 
paste, medicine for dogs and horses, cheap perfum- 
ery, cosmetics, and such like wares, which he carried 
in a case slung to his back. His entrance was the 
signal for various homely jokes with the countrymen 
which slackened not until he had made his supper, 
and opened his box of treasures, when he ingeniously 
contrived to unite business with amusement. 

"And what be that stoof ? Good to eat, Harry?" 
asked a grinning countryman, pointing to some com- 
position cakes in one corner. 

"This," said the fellow, producing one, "this is 
the infallible and invaluable composition for remov- 
ing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt, mildew, spick, speck, 
spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen, cambric, cloth, 
crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or 
woolen stuff. Wine-stains, fruit-stains, water-stains, 
beer-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, any stains, all 



OLIVER TWIST. II 5 

come out at one rub with the infallible and invaluable 
compostion. If a lady stains her honor, she has only 
need to swallow one cake and she's cured at once 
— for it's poison. If a gentleman wants to prove this 
he has only need to bolt one little square, and he has 
put it beyond question — for it's quite as satisfactory as 
a pistol bullet, and a great deal nastier in the flavor, 
consequently the more credit in taking it. One penny 
a square. With all these virtues, one penny a square!" 

There were two buyers directly, and more of the 
listeners plainly hesitated. The vendor observing 
this increased in loquacity. 

" It's all bought up as fast as it can be made," 
said the fellow. " There are fourteen water-mills, 
six steam-engines, and a galvanic battery, always 
a-working upon it, and they can't make it fast 
enough, though the men work so hard that they die 
off, and the widows is pensioned directly, with 
twenty pound a-year for each of the children, and a 
premium of fifty for twins. One penny a square ! 
Two halfpence is all the same, and four farthings is 
received with joy. One penny a square ! Wine-stains, 
fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, 
pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains ! Here is a 
stain upon the hat of a gentleman in company, that 
I'll take clean out, before he can order me a pint of ale. " 

"Hah!" cried Sikes starting up. " Give that 
back." 



Il6 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" I'll take it clean out, sir," replied the man, wink- 
ing- to the company, " before you can come across 
the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the dark 
stain upon this gentleman's hat, no wider than a 
shilling, but thicker than a half-crown. Whether it 
is a wine-stain, fruit- stain, beer-stain, water-stain, 
paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain 



The man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous 
imprecation overthrew the table, and tearing the hat 
from him, burst out of the house. 

With the same perversity of feeling and irresolu- 
tion that had fastened upon him, despite himself, all 
day, the murderer finding that he was not followed, 
and that they most probably considered him some 
drunken sullen fellow, turned back upon the town, 
and getting out of the glare of the lamps of a stage- 
coach that was standing in the street, was walking 
past, when he recognized the mail from London, and 
saw that it was standing at the little post-office. He 
almost knew what was to come ; but he crossed 
over, and listened. 

The guard was standing at the door, waiting for 
the letter-bag, A man dressed like a gamekeeper, 
came up at the moment, and he handed him a basket 
which lay ready on the pavement, 

" That's for your people," said the guard. " Now, 
look alive in there, will you. Damn that 'er bag, it 



OLIVER TWIST. I 1/ 

warn't ready night afore last ; this won't do, you 
know ! " 

"Anything new up in town, Ben?" asked the 
gamekeeper, drawing back to the window-shutters, 
the better to admire the horses. 

" No, nothing that I knows on," rephed the man, 
pulHng on his gloves. " Corn's up a little. I heerd 
talk of a murder too, down Spitefields way, but I 
don't reckon much upon it." 

"Oh, that's quite true," said a gentleman inside, 
who was looking out of the window. " And a 
dreadful murder it was." 

"Was it, sir?" rejoined the guard, touching his 
hat. " Man or woman, pray, sir ? " 

" A woman," replied the gentleman. " It is sup- 
posed " 

" Now, Ben," replied the coachman impatiently. 

"Damn that 'ere bag," said the guard: "are 
you gone to sleep in there?" 

"Coming!" cried the office keeper, running out. 

"Coming,'' growled the guard. "Ah, and so's 
the young 'ooman of property that's going to take 
a fancy to me, but I don't know when. Here, 
give hold. All ri — ight!" 

The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the 
coach was gone. 

Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently, 
unmoved by what he had just heard, and agitated 



Il8 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. 
At length he went back again, and took the road 
which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans. 

He went on doggedly ; but as he left the town be- 
hind him, and plunged into the solitude and dark- 
ness of the road, he felt a dread and awe creeping 
upon him which shook him to the core. Every ob- 
ject before him, substance or shadow, still or moving, 
took the semblance of some fearful thing ; but these 
fears were nothing compared to the sense that haunt- 
ed him of that morning's ghastly figure following at 
his heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, sup- 
ply the smallest item of the outline, and note how stiff 
and solemn it seemed to stalk along. He could hear its 
garments rustling in the leaves, and every breath of 
wind came laden with that last low cry. If he stopped 
it did the same. If he ran, it followed — not running 
too ; that would have been a relief; but like a corpse 
endowed with the mere machinery of life, and borne 
on one slow melancholy wind that never rose or fell. 

At times, he turned, with desperate determination, 
resolved to beat this phantom off, though it should 
look him dead ; but the hair rose on his head, and 
his blood stood still, for it had turned with him and 
was behind him then. He had kept it before him 
that morning, but it was behind now— always. 
He leaned his back against a bank, and felt that 
it stood above him, visibly out against the cold night- 



OLIVER TWIST. 1 19 

sky. He threw himself upon the road — on his back 
upon the road. At his head it stood, silent, erect, and 
still — a living grave-stone, with its epitaph in blood. 

Let no mantalkof murderers escaping justice, and 
hint that Providence must sleep. There were twenty 
score of violent deaths in one long minute of that 
agony of fear. 

There was a shed in a field that he passed, that 
offered shelter for the night. Before the door, were 
three tall poplar trees, which made it very dark with- 
in ; and the wind moaned through them with a dis- 
mal wail. He could not walk on, till daylight came 
again; and here he stretched himself close to the 
wall — to undergo new torture. 

For now a vision came before him, as constant 
and more terrible than that from which he had 
escaped. Those widely staring eyes, so lustreless 
and so glassy, that he had better borne to see them 
than think upon them, appeared in the midst of the 
darkness : light in themselves, but giving light to 
nothing. There were but two, but they were every- 
where. If he shut out the sight, there came the room 
with every well-known object — some, indeed, that he 
would have forgotten, if he had gone over its contents 
from memory — each in its accustomed place. The 
body was in its place., and its eyes were as he saw 
them when he stole away. He got up, and rushed 
into the field without. The figure was behind him. He 



120 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

re-entered the shed, and shrunk down once more. The 
eyes were there, before he had laid himself long. 

And here he remained in such terror as none but 
he can know, trembling in every limb, and the cold 
sweat starting from every pore, when suddenly there 
arose upon the night-wind the noise of distant shout- 
ing, and the roar of voices mingled in alarm and 
wonder. Any sound of men in that lonely place, 
even though it conveyed a real cause of alarm, was 
something to him. He regained his strength and 
energy at the prospect of personal danger ; and 
springing to his feet, he rushed into the open air. 

The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air 
with showers of sparks, and rolling one above the 
other, were sheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere 
for miles round, and driving clouds of smoke in the 
direction where he stood. The shouts grew louder as 
new voices swelled the roar, and he could hear the 
cry of Fire ! mingled with the ringing of an alarm- 
bell, the fall of heavy bodies, and the crackling of 
flames as they twined round some new obstacle, and 
shot aloft as though refreshed by food. The noise in- 
creased as he looked. There were people there — men 
and women — light, bustle. It was like new life to 
him. He darted onward — straight, headlong — dashing 
through brier and brake, and leaping gate and fence as 
madly as his dog, who careered with loud and sound- 
ing bark before him. 



OLIVER TWIST. 121 

He came upon the spot. There were half- dressed 
figures tearing to and fro, some endeavoring to drag 
the frightened horses from the stables, others driving 
the cattle from the yard and out-houses, and others 
coming laden from the burning pile, amidst a shower 
of falUng sparks, and the tumbling down of red-hot 
beams. The apertures, where doors and windows 
stood an hour ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire, 
walls rocked and crumbled into the burning well ; 
the molten lead and iron poured down, white hot 
upon the ground. Women and children shrieked, 
and men encouraged each other with noisy shouts 
and cheers. The clanking of the engine- pumps, 
and the spirting and hissing of the water as it fell upon 
the blazing wood, added to the tremendous roar. He 
shouted, too, till he was hoarse ; and flying from memory 
and himself, plunged into the thickest of the throng. 

Hither and thither he dived that night : now work- 
ing at the pumps, and now hurrying through the 
smoke and flame, but never ceasing to engage him- 
self wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and 
down the ladders, upon the roofs of buildings, over 
floors that quaked and trembled with his weight, 
under the lee of faUing bricks and stones, in every 
part of that great fire was he ; but he bore a charmed 
life, and had neither scratch nor bruise, nor weari- 
ness nor thought, till morning dawned again, and 
only smoke and blackened ruins remained. 



122 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

This mad excitement over, there returned, with 
tenfold force, the dreadful consciousness of his crime. 
He looked suspiciously about him, for the men were 
conversing in groups, and he feared to be the subject 
of their talk. The dog obeyed the significant beck 
of his finger, and they drew off, stealthily, together. 
He passed near an engine, where some men were 
seated, and they called to him to share in their re- 
freshment. He took some bread and meat, and as 
he drank a draught of beer, heard the firemen, who 
were from London, talking about the murder. " He 
has gone to Birmingham, they say,'' said one: "but 
they'll have him yet, for the scouts are out, and by 
to-morrow night there'll be a cry all through the 
country.'' 

He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped 
upon the ground ; then lay down in a lane, and had 
a long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered 
on again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed 
with the fear of another solitary night. 

Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution of going 
back to London. 

" There's somebody to speak to there, at all 
events," he thought. "A good hiding-place, too. 
They'll never expect to nab me there, after this coun- 
try scent. Why can't I lie by for a week or so, and 
forcing blunt from Fagin, get abroad to France.'' 
Damme, I'll risk it." 



OLIVER TWIST. I 23 

He acted upon this impulse without delay, and 
choosing the least frequented roads began his journey 
back, resolved to lie concealed within a short dis- 
tance of the metropolis, and, entering it at dusk by a 
circuitous route, to proceed straight to that part of it 
which he had fixed on for his destination. 

The dog, though. If any description of him were 
out, it would not be forgotten that the dog was miss- 
ing, and had probably gone with him. This might 
lead to his apprehension as he passed along the 
streets. He resolved to drown him, and walked on, 
looking about for a pond : picking up a heavy stone 
and tying it to his handkerchief as he went. 

The animal looked up into his master's face while 
these preparations were making ; whether his instinct 
apprehended something of their purpose, or the rob- 
ber's sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, 
he skulked a little farther in the rear than usual, and 
cowered as he came more slowly along. When his 
master halted at the brink of a pool, and looked 
round to call him, he stopped outright. 

" Do you hear me call ? Come here ? " cried Sikes. 

The animal came up from the very force of habit ; 
but as Sikes stooped to attach the handkerchief to his 
throat, he uttered a low growl and started back. 

" Come back ! " said the robber. 

The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes 
made a running noose and called him again. 



124 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, 
turned, and scoured away at his hardest speed. 

The man whistled again and again, and sat down 
and waited in the expectation that he would return. 
But no dog appeared, and at length he resumed his 
journey. 



Near to that part of the Thames on which the 
church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on 
the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river 
blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of 
close-built low-roofed houses, there exists the filthiest, 
the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many 
locahties that are hidden in London, wholly un- 
known, even by name, to the great mass of its in- 
habitants. 

To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate 
through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, 
thronged by the roughest and poorest of waterside 
people, and devoted to the traffic they may be sup- 
posed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate 
provisions are heaped in the shops ; the coarsest and 
commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the 
salesman's door, and stream from the house parapet 
and windows. Jostling with unemployed laborers of 
the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, bra- 
zen women, ragged children, and the raff and refuse 



OLIVER TWIST. 12$ 

of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along, 
assailed by offensive sights and smells from the nar- 
row alleys which branch off on the right and left, 
and deafened by the clash of ponderous wagons that 
bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of 
warehouses that rise fromi every corner. Arriving, 
at length, in streets remoter and less frequented than 
those through which he has passed : he walks be- 
neath tottering house fronts projecting over the 
pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he 
passes, chimneys half crushed half hesitating to fall, 
windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time and 
dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign 
of desolation and neglect. 

In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the 
Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob's Island, sur- 
rounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep 
and fifteen or twenty wide when the tide is in, once 
called Mill Pond, but known in the days of this story 
as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from the 
Thames, and can always be filled at high water by 
opening the sluices at the Lead Mills from which it 
took its old name. At such times, a stranger, look- 
ing from one of the wooden bridges thrown across it 
at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of the houses 
on either side lowering from their back doors and 
windows, buckets, pails and domestic utensils of all 
kinds, in which to haul the water up ; and when his 



126 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS, 

eye is turned from these operations to the houses 
themselves, his utmost astonishment will be excited 
by the scene before him. Crazy wooden galleries 
common to the backs of half a dozen houses, with 
holes from which to look upon the slime beneath ; 
windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, 
on which to dry the linen that is never there ; rooms 
so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would 
seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which 
they shelter ; wooden chambers thrusting themselves 
out above the mud, and threatening to fall into it — 
as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and de- 
caying foundations ; every repulsive lineament of pov- 
erty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot and gar- 
bage; all these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch. 

In Jacob's Island, the warehouses are roofless and 
empty ; the walls are crumbling down ; the windows 
are windows no more ; the doors are falling into the 
streets ; the chimneys are blackened, but they yield 
no smoke. Thirty or forty years ago, before losses 
and chancery suits came upon it, it was a thriving 
place ; but now it is a desolate island indeed. The 
houses have no owners ; they are broken open, and 
entered upon by those who have the courage ; and 
there they live, and there they die. They must have 
powerful motives for a secret residence, or be re- 
duced to a destitute condition indeed, who seek a 
refuge in Jacob's Island. 



OLIVER TWIST. 12^ 

In an upper room of one of these houses — a de- 
tached house of fair size, ruinous in other respects, but 
strongly defended at door and window: of which house 
the back commanded the ditch in manner already 
described — there were assembled three men, who, re- 
garding each other every now and then with looks 
expressive of perplexity and expectation, sat for 
some time in profound and gloomy silence. One of 
these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and 
the third a robber of fifty years, whose nose had been 
almost beaten in, in some old scuffle, and whose face 
bore a frightful scar which might probably be traced 
to the same occasion. This man was a returned 
transport, and his name was Kags. 

" I wish," said Toby turning to Mr. Chitling, " that 
you had picked out some other crib when the two 
old ones got too warm, and had not come here, my 
fine feller." 

V Who didn't, you blunder-head ! " said Kags. 

" Well, I thought you'd have been a little more 
glad to see me than this," replied Mr. Chithng, with 
a melancholy air. 

"Why look'e, young gentleman," said Toby, 
" when a man keeps himself so very ex-clusive as I 
have done, and by that means has a snug house 
over his head with nobody a prying and smelling 
about it, it's rather a startling thing to have the honor 
of a wisit from a young gentleman (however respect- 



128 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

able and pleasant a person he may be to play cards 
with at conwenience) circumstanced as you are." 

" Especially when the exclusive young man has 
got a friend stopping with him, that's arrived sooner 
than was expected from foreign parts, and is toe 
modest to want to be presented to the Judges on his 
return," added Mr. Kags. 

There was a short silence, after which Toby 
Crackit, seeming to abandon as hopeless any further 
effort to maintain his usual devil-may-care swagger, 
turned to Chitling and said, 

" When was Fagin took then ? " 

" Just at dinner time — two o'clock this afternoon. 
Charley and I made our lucky up the wash'us chim- 
ney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, head 
downwards ; but his legs were so precious long that 
they stuck out at the top, and so they took him too." 

"And Bet?" 

" Poor Bet ! She went to see the Body, to speak tc 
who it was," replied Chitling, his countenance fall- 
insT more and more, "and went off mad, screaming 
and raving, and beating her head against the boards ; 
so they put a strait-weskut on her and took her to 
the hospital — and there she is." 

" Wot's come of young Bates ? " demanded Kags. 

" He hung about, not to come over here afore 
dark, but he'll be here soon," replied Chitling. 
"There's nowhere else to go to now, for the people 



OLIVER TWIST. I2g 

at the Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the 
ken — I went up there and see it with my own eyes — 
is filled with traps." 

"This is a smash," observed Toby biting his lips. 
" There's more than one will go with this." 

" The sessions are on,'' said Kags ; "if they get 
the inquest over, and Bolter turns King's evidence ; 
as of course he will, from what he's said already : 
they can prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, 
and get the trial on on Friday, and he'll swing in 
six days from this, by G — ! " 

"You should have heard the people groan," said 
Chitling ; '' the officers fought hke devils, or they'd 
have torn him away. He was down once, but they 
made a ring round him, and fought their way along. 
You should have seen how he looked about him, all 
muddy and bleeding, and clung to them as if they 
were his dearest friends. I can see 'em now, not 
able to stand upright with the pressing of the mob, 
and dragging him along amongst 'em ; I can see the 
people jumping up, one behind another, and snarl- 
ing with their teeth and making at him ; I can see the 
blood upon his hair and beard, and hear the cries 
with which the women worked themselves into the 
centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore 
they'd tear his heart out ! " 

The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed 
his hands upon his ears, and with his eyes closed got 

9 



130 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

up and paced violently to and fro, like one dis- 
tracted. 

While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat 
by in silence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a 
pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and Sikes's 
dog bounded into the room. They ran to the win- 
dow, down stairs, and into the street. The dog had 
jumped in at an open window ; he made no attempt 
to follow them, nor was his master to be seen, 

"What's the meaning of this ? " said Toby when 
they had returned. " He can't be coming here. I 
— I — hope not." 

" If he was coming here, he'd have come with the 
dog," said Kags, stooping down to examine the ani- 
mal, who lay panting on the floor. " Here ! Give us 
some water for him ; he has run himself faint." 

"He's drunk it all up, every drop," said Chitling 
after watching the dog some time in silence. " Cov- 
ered with mud — lame — half-blind — he must have 
come a long way.'' 

" Where can he have come from ! " exclaimed 
Toby. 

" He's been to the other kens of course, and find- 
ing them filled with strangers come on here, where 
he's been many a time and often. But where can 
he have come from first, and how comes he here 
alone without the other ! " 

"He " — (none of them called the murderer by his 



OLIVER TWIST. I3I 

old name) — " He can't have made away with him- 
self. What do you think ? " said Chitling. 

Toby shook his head. 

" If he had," said Kags, " the dog 'ud want to 
lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he's 
got out of the country and left the dog behind. He 
must have given him the slip somehow, or he 
wouldn't be so easy." 

This solution, appearing the most probable one, 
was adopted as the right ; the dog, creeping under a 
chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice 
from anybody. 

It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a 
candle lighted and placed upon the table. The ter- 
rible events of the last two days had made a deep 
impression on all three, increased by the danger and 
uncertainty of their own position. They drew their 
chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They 
spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent 
and awe-stricken as if the remains of the murdered 
woman lay in the next room. 

They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was 
heard a hurried knocking at the door below. 

"Young Bates," said Kags, looking angrily round, 
to check the fear he felt himself. 

The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He 
never knocked like that. 

Crackit went to the window, and shaking all over, 



132 MASTERPIECES FROM EICKENS. 

drew in his head. There was no need to tell them 
who it was, his pale face was enough. The dog too 
was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to 
the door. 

" We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle. 

" Isn't there any help for it ? " asked the other man 
in a hoarse voice. 

" None. He imist come in." 

" Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking 
down a candle from the chimney-piece, and lighting 
it, with such a trembling hand that the knocking was 
twice repeated before he had finished. 

Crackit went down to the door, and returned fol- 
lowed by a man with the lower part of his face buried 
in a handkerchief, and another tied over his head 
under his hat. He drew them slowly off. Blanched 
face, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' 
growth, wasted flesh, short thick breath ; it was the 
very ghost of Sikes. 

He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the 
middle of the room, but shuddering as he was about 
to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his 
shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall — as close 
as it would go — ground it against it — and sat down. 

Not a word had been exchanged. He looked 
from one to another in silence. If an eye were fur- 
tively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. 
When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three 



OLIVER TWIST. 1 33 

Started. They seemed never to have heard its tones 
before. 

" How came that dog here ? '' he asked. 

" Alone. Three hours ago." 

" To-night's paper says that Fagin's took. Is it 
true, or a he ? " 

" True.' 

They were silent again. 

" Damn you all ! " said Sikes, passing his hand 
across his forehead. " Have you nothing to say to 
me?" 

There was an uneasy movement among them, but 
nobody spoke. 

*' You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his 
lace to Crackit, " do you mean to sell me, or to let 
me lie here till this hunt is over ? " 

" You may stop here if you think it safe," returned 
the person addressed, after some hesitation. 

Sikes carried his eye slowly up to the wall behind 
him ; rather trying to turn his head than actually 
doing it it ; and said, " Is — it — the body — is it 
buried ?'' 

They shook their heads. 

'' Why isn't it ! " he retorted with the same glance 
behind him. " Wot do they keep such ugly things 
above the ground for ? — Who's that knocking? " 

Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he 
left the room, that there was nothing to fear ; and 



134 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

directly came back with Charley Bates behind him. 
Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the 
boy entered the room he encountered his figure. 

" Toby," said the boy, falling back, as Sikes 
turned his eyes toward him, " why didn't you tell me 
this down stairs ? " 

There had been something so tremendous in the 
shrinking off of the three, that the wretched man 
was wilhng to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly 
he nodded, and made as though he would shake 
hands with him. 

' Let me go into some other room," said the boy, 
retreating still farther. 

" Charley ! " said Sikes, stepping forward. "Don't 
you — don't you know me.''" 

" Don't come nearer me/' answered the boy, still 
retreating, and looking, with horror in his eyes, upon 
the murderer's face. " You monster ! " 

The man stopped half-way, and they looked at 
each other, but Sikes' eyes sunk gradually to the 
ground. 

" Witness you three," cried the boy shaking his 
clenched fist, and becoming more and more excited 
as he spoke. " Witness you three — I'm not afraid 
of him — if they come here after him, I'll give him up ; 
I will. I tell you out at once. He may kill for it if 
he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here I'll give him 
up. I'd give him up if he was to be boiled alive. 



OLIVER TWIST. 1 35 

Murder ! Help ! If there's the pluck of a man 
among you three, you'll help me. Murder ! Help ! 
Down with him ! " 

Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them 
with violent gesticulation, the boy actually threw him- 
self, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the 
intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his 
surprise, brought him heavily to the ground. 

The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They 
offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled 
on the ground together ; the former, heedless of the 
blows that showered upon him. wrenching his hands 
tighter and tighter in the garments about the mur- 
derer's breast, and never ceasing to call for help with 
all his might. 

The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. 
Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, 
when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, 
and pointed to the window. There were lights 
gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conver- 
sation, the tramp of hurried footsteps — endless they 
seemed in number — crossing the nearest wooden 
bridge. One man on horseback seemed to be among 
the crowd ; for there was the noise of hoofs rattling 
on the uneven pavement. The gleam of lights in- 
creased ; the footsteps came more thickly and noisily 
on. Then came a loud knocking at the door, and 
then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of 



136 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

angry voices as would have made the boldest 
quail. 

" Help ! " shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the 
air. " He's here ! Break down the door ! " 

" In the King's name," cried the voices v/ithout; 
and the hoarse cry arose again, but louder. 

" Break down the door ! '' screamed the boy. " I 
tell you they'll never open it. Run straight to the 
room where the light is. Break down the door ! " 

Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and 
lower window-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a 
loud hurrah burst from the crowd ; giving the listener, 
for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense 
extent. 

" Open the door of some place where I can lock 
this screeching Hell-babe,'' cried Sikes fiercely ; run- 
ning to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily 
as if he were an empty sack. "That door. Quick ! " 
He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. " Is 
the down stairs door fast ? " 

"Double-locked and chained," replied Crackit, 
who, with the other two men, still remained quite 
helpless and bewildered. 

" The panels — are they strong ? " 

" Lined with sheet-iron." 

"And the windows too ? " 

" Yes, and the windows." 

"Damn you ! '' cried the desperate ruffian, throw- 



OLIVER TWIST. 1 3/ 

ing up the shaft and menacing the crowd. "Do your 
worst ! I'll cheat you yet ! " 

Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, 
none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. 
Some shouted to those who were nearest to set the 
house on fire ; others roared to the officers to shoot 
him dead. Among them all, none showed such fury 
as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out 
of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if 
he were parting water, cried, beneath the v/indow, in 
a voice that rose above all others, " Twenty guineas 
to the man who brings a ladder ! '' The nearest 
voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. 
Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers ; 
some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them 
and still came back and roared again ; some spent 
their breath in impotent curses and execrations ; 
some pressed forward with the ecstacy of madmen, 
and thus impeded the progress of those below ; some 
among the boldest attempted to climb up by the 
water-spout and crevices in the wall ; and all waved 
to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of 
corn moved by an angry wind ; and joined from 
time to time in one loud furious roar. 

*' The tide," cried the murderer, as he staggered 
back into the room, and shut the faces out, " the tide 
was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. 
They're all in front. I may drop into the Folly 



138 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me a rope, or I 
shall do three more murders and kill myself." 

The panic-stricken men pointed to where such 
articles were kept ; the murderer, hastily selecting 
the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to the 
house-top. 

All the windows in the rear of the house had been 
long ago bricked up, except one small trap in the 
room where the boy was locked, and that was too 
small even for the passage of his body. But, from 
this aperture he had never ceased to call on those 
without, to guard the back ; and thus, when the mur- 
derer emerged at last on the house-top by the door 
in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those 
in front, who immediately began to pour round, 
pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream. 

He planted a board, which he had carried up with 
him for the purpose, so firmly against the door that 
it must be matter of great difficulty to open it from 
the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over 
the low parapet. 

The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud. 

The crowd had been hushed during these few mo- 
ments, watching his motions and doubtful of his pur- 
pose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it 
was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execra- 
tion to which all their previous shouting had been 
whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who 



OLIVER TWIST. I 39 

were at too great a distance to know its meaning, 
took up the sound ; it seemed as though the whole 
city had poured its population out to curse him. 

On pressed the people from the front — on, on, on, 
in a strong struggUng current of angry faces, with 
here and there a glaring torch to light them up, and 
show them out in all their wrath and passion. The 
houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been en- 
tered by the mob ; sashes were thrown up, or torn 
bodily out ; there were tiers and tiers of faces in 
every window ; cluster upon cluster of people cling- 
ing to every house-top. Each little bridge (and 
there were three in sight) bent beneath the weight of 
the crowd upon it. Still the current poured on to 
find some nook or hole from which to vent their 
shouts, and only for an instant see the wretch. 

"They have him now," cried a man on the near- 
est bridge. "Hurrah!" 

The crowd grew light with uncovered heads ; and 
again the shout uprose. 

" I will give fifty pounds," cried an old gentleman 
from the same quarter, " to the man who takes him 
alive. I will remain here, till he comes to ask me 
for it." 

There was another roar. At this moment the word 
was passed among the crowd that the door was 
forced at last, and that he who had first called for a 
ladder had mounted into the room. The stream ab- 



140 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

ruptly turned, as this intelligence ran from mouth to 
month ; and the people at the windows, seeing those 
upon the bridge pouring back, quitted their stations, 
and running into the street, joined the concourse 
that now thronged pell-mell to the spot they had left 
each man crushing and striving with his neighbor^ 
and all panting with impatience to get near the door 
and look upon the criminal as the officers brought 
him out. The cries and shrieks of those who were 
almost pressed to suffocation, or trampled down and 
trodden under foot in the confusion, were dreadful; 
the narrow ways were completely blocked up ; and 
at this time, between the rush of some to regain the 
space in front of the house, and the unavailing strug- 
gles of others to extricate themselves from the mass, 
the immediate attention was distracted from the 
murderer, although the universal eagerness for his 
capture was, if possible, increased. 

The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by 
the ferocity of the crowd, and the impossibihty of es- 
cape ; but seeing the sudden change with no less 
rapidity than it had occurred, he sprang upon his 
feet, determined to make one last effort for his life by 
dropping into the ditch, and at the risk of being sti- 
fled, endeavoring to creep away in the darkness and 
confusion. 

Roused into new strength and energy, and stimu- 
lated by the noise within the house which announced 



OLIVER TWIST. I4I 

that an entrance had really been effected, he set his 
foot against a stack of chimneys, fastened one end 
o-f the rope tightly and firmly around it, and with the 
other made a strong running noose by the aid of his 
hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let 
himself down by the cord to within a less distance of 
the ground than his own height, and had his knife 
ready in his hand to cut it then and drop. 

At the very instant when he brought the loop over 
his head previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, 
and when the old gentleman before mentioned (who 
had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to 
resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) 
earnestly warned those about him that the man was 
about to lower himself down — at that very instant the 
murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his 
arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror. 

" The eyes again ! " he cried in an unearthly 
screech. 

Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his 
balance and tumbled over the parapet. The noose 
was over his neck. It ran up with its weight, tight 
as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He 
fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden ' 
jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs ; and there he 
hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening 
hand. 

The old chimney quivered with the shock, but 



142 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

stood it bravely. The murderer swung lifeless 
against the wall ; and the boy, thrusting aside the 
dangling body which obscured his view, called to 
the people to come and take him out, for God's sake. 
A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran 
backward and forward on the parapet with a dismal 
howl, and collecting himself for a spring, jumped for 
the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell 
into the ditch, turning completely over as he went ; 
and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his 
brains. 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 



143 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 



'T^HE Paper Mill had stopped work for the night, 
and the paths and roads in its neij^hborhood were 
sprinkled with clusters of people going home from 
their day's labor in it. There were men, women, 
and children in the groups, and there was no want of 
lively color to flutter in the gentle evening wind. 
The mingling of various voices and sound of laugh- 
ter made a cheerful impression upon the ear, analo- 
gous to that of the fluttering colors upon the eye. 
Into the sheet of water reflecting the flushed sky in 
the foreground of the living picture, a knot of urchins 
were casting stones, and watching the expansion of 
the rippling circles. So, in the rosy evening, one 
might watch the ever-v/idening beauty of the land- 
scape — beyond the newly-released workers wending 
home — beyond the silver river — beyond the deep 
green fields of corn, so prospering, that the loiterers 
in their narrow threads of pathway seemed to float 
immersed breast-high — beyond the hedgerows and 
the clumps of trees — beyond the windmills on the 
ridge — away to where the sky appeared to meet the 
lo 145 



146 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

earth, as if there were no immensity of space be- 
tween mankind and Heaven. 

It was a Saturday evening, and at such a time the 
village dogs, always much more interested in the 
doings of humanity than in the affairs of their own 
species, were particularly active. At the general 
shop, at the butcher's and at the public-house, they 
evinced an inquiring spirit never to be satiated. 
Their especial interest in the public-house would 
seem to imply some latent rakishness in the canine 
character; for little was eaten there, and they, hav- 
ing no taste for beer or tobacco (Mrs Hubbard's dog 
is said to have smoked, but proof is wanting), could 
only have been attracted by sympathy with loose 
convivial habits. Moreover, a most wretched fiddle 
played within ; a fiddle so unutterably vile, that one 
lean long-bodied cur, with a better ear than the rest, 
found himself under compulsion at intervals to go 
round the corner and howl. Yet, even he returned 
to the public-house on each occasion with the tenacity 
of a confirmed drunkard. 

Fearful to relate, there was even a sort of a little 
Fair in the village. Some despairing gingerbread 
that had been vainly trying to dispose of itself all 
over the country, and had cast a quantity of dust 
upon its head in its mortification, again appealed to 
the public from an infirm booth. So did a heap of 
nuts, long, long, exiled from Barcelona, and yet 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 14/ 

speaking English so indifferently as to call fourteen 
of themselves a pint. A Peep-show which had origi- 
nally started with the Battle of Waterloo, and had 
since made it every other battle of later date by 
altering the Duke of Wellington's nose, tempted the 
student of illustrated history. A Fat Lady, perhaps, 
in part sustained upon postponed pork, her profes- 
sional associate being a Learned Pig, displayed her 
life-size picture in a low dress as she appeared when 
presented at Court, several yards round. All this 
was a vicious spectacle, as any poor idea of amuse- 
ment on the part of the rougher hewers of wood and 
drawers of water in this land of England ever is and 
shall be. They mtcst not vary the rheumatism with 
amusement. They may vary it with fever and ague, 
or with as many rheumatic variations as they have 
joints ; but positively not with entertainment after 
their own manner. 

The various sounds arising from this scene of de- 
pravity, and floating away into the still evening air, 
made the evening, at any point which they just 
reached fitfully, mellowed by the distance, more still 
by contrast. Such was the stillness of the evening 
to Eugene Wrayburn, as he walked by the river with 
his hands behind him. 

He walked slowly, and with the measured step 
and pre-occupied air of one who was waiting. He 
walked between the two points, an osier-bed at this 



148 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

end and some floating lilies at that, and at each point 
stopped and looked expectantly in one direction. 

" It is very quiet," said he. 

It was very quiet. Some sheep were grazing on 
the grass by the riverside, and it seemed to him that 
he had never before heard the crisp, tearing sound 
with which they cropped it. He stopped idly and 
looked at them. 

" You are stupid enough, I suppose. But if you 
are clever enough to get through life tolerably to your 
satisfaction, you have got the better of me, Man as I 
am, and Mutton as you are ! " 

A rustle in a field beyond the hedge attracted his 
attention. "What's here to do ? " he asked himself, 
leisurely going toward the gate and looking over. 
" No jealous paper-miller ? No pleasures of the chase 
in this part of the country. Mostly fishing here- 
about?" 

The field had been newly mown, and there were yet 
the marks of the scythe on the yellow-green ground, 
and the track of wheels where the hay had been 
carried. Following the tracks with his eyes, the 
view closed with the new hay-rick in the corner. 

Now, if he had gone on to the hay-rick, and gone 
round it ? But, say that the event was to be, as the 
event fell out, and how idle are such suppositions ! 
Besides, if he had gone ; what is there of warning in 
a bargeman lying on his face ? 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. I49 

"A bird flying to the hedge," was all he thought 
about it ; and came back, and resumed his walk. 

" If I had not a reliance on her being truthful,'* 
said Eugene, after taking some half-dozen turns, " I 
should begin to think she had given me the slip for 
the second time. But she promised, and she is a girl 
of her word." 

Turning again at the water-lilies, he saw her com- 
ing, and advanced to meet her. 

" I was saying to myself, Lizzie, that you were sure 
to come, though you were late." 

" I had to linger through the village as if I had no 
object before me, and I had to speak to several peo- 
ple in passing along, Mr. Wrayburn." 

"Are the lads of the village — and the ladies — such 
scandal-mongers?" he asked, as he took her hand 
and drew it through his arm. 

She submitted to walk slowly on with downcast 
eyes. He put her hand to his lips, and she quietly 
drew it away. 

"Will you walk beside me, Mr. Wrayburn, and 
not touch me ?'' For, his arm was already stealing 
around her waist. 

She stopped again, and gave him an earnest sup= 
plicating look. "Weil, Lizzie, well !" said he, in an 
easy way, though ill at ease with himself, " don't be 
unhappy, dont be reproachful." 

"1 cannot help being unhappy, but I do not mean to 



150 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

be reproachful. Mr. Wrayburn, I implore you to go 
away from this neighborhood to-morrow morning.' 

" Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie!" he remonstrated. "As 
well be reproachful as wholly unreasonable. I can't 
go away." 

"Why not?" 

" Faith!'' said Eugene in his airily candid manner. 
" Because you won't let me. Mind ! I don't mean 
to be reproachful either. I don't complain that you 
design to keep me here. But you do it, you do it,'' 

" Will you walk beside me, and not touch me," 
for his arm was coming about her again; "while I 
speak to you very seriously, Mr. Wrayburn ?" 

" I will do anything within the limits of possibility, 
for you, Lizzie," he answered with pleasant gayety as 
he folded his arms. " See here 1 Napoleon Bona- 
parte at St. Helena." 

" When you spoke to me as I came from the Mill 
the night before last," fixing her eyes upon him with 
a look of supplication which troubled his better na- 
ture, " you told me that you were much surprised to 
see me, and that you were on a solitary fishing excur- 
sion. W^as it true ?" 

" It was not," replied Eugene composedly, " in the 
least true. I came here because I had information 
that I could find you here." 

" Can you magine why I left London, Mr. Wray- 
burn ?'' 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. I5I 

" I am afraid, Lizzie," he openly answered, "that 
you left London to get rid of me. It is not flattering 
to my self-love, but I am afraid you did." 

"I did." 

" How could you be so cruel ?'' 

" Oh, Mr. Wrayburn," she answered, suddenly 
breaking into tears, "is the cruelty on my side? Oh, 
Mr. Wrayburn, is there no cruelty in your being here 
to-night ?" 

" In the name of all that's good — and that is not 
conjuring you in my own name — for Heaven knows 
I am not good" — said Eugene, "don't be distressed!" 

" What else can I be, when I know the distance 
and the difference between us ? What else can I be, 
when to tell me why you came here, is to put me to 
shame !" said Lizzie, covering her face. 

He looked at her with a real sentiment of a re- 
morseful tenderness and pity. It was not strong 
enough to impel him to sacrifice himself and spare 
her, but it was a strong emotion. 

" Lizzie ! I never thought before, that there was a 
woman in the world who could affect me so much by 
saying so little. But don't be hard in your construc- 
tion of me. You don't know what my state of mind 
toward you is. You don't know how you haunt and 
bewilder me. You don't know how the crushed 
carelessness that is over-officious in helping me at 
every other turning of my life, won't help me here. 



152 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

You have struck it dead, I think, and I sometimes 
almost wish you had struck me dead along with it." 

She had not been prepared for such passionate ex- 
pressions, and they awakened some natural sparks 
of feminine pride and joy in her breast. To con- 
sider, wrong as he was, that he could care so much 
for her, and that she had the power to move him so ! 

" It grieves you to see me distressed, Mr. Wray- 
burn ; it grieves me to see you distressed, I don't 
reproach you. Indeed, I don't reproach you. You 
have not felt this as I feel it, being so different from 
me, and beginning from another point of view. You 
have not thought. But I entreat you to think now !" 

"What am I to think of.?" asked Eugene bitterly. 

" Think of me." 

"Tell me how nof to think of you, Lizzie, and 
you'll change me altogether.'' 

" I don't mean in that way. Think of me, as be- 
longing to another station, and quite cut off from you 
in honor. Remember that I have no protector near 
me, unless I have one in your noble heart. Respect 
my good name. If you feel toward me, in one par- 
ticular, as you might if I was a lady, give me the full 
claims of a lady upon your generous behavior. I am 
removed from you and your family by being a work- 
ing girl. How true a gentleman to be as considerate 
of me as if I was removed by being a Queen !" 

He would have been base indeed to have stood 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 153 

untouched by her appeal. His face expressed con- 
trition and indecision as he asked : 

" Have I injured you so much, Lizzie ?" 
" No, no. You may set me quite right. I don't 
speak of the past, Mr. Wrayburn, but of the present 
and the future. Are we not here now, because 
through two days you have followed me so closely 
where there are so many eyes to see you, that I con- 
sented to this appointment as an escape?" 

"Again, not very flattering to my self-love,'' said 
Eugene moodily ; " but yes. Yes. Yes." 

" Then I beseech you, Mr. Wrayburn, I beg and 
pray, you leave this neighborhood. If you do not, 
consider to what you will drive me." 

He did consider within himself for a moment or 
two, and then retorted, " Drive you ? To what shall 
I drive you, Lizzie?" 

" You will drive me away. I live here peacefully 
and respected, and I am well employed here. You 
will force me to quit this place as I quitted London, 
and, — by following me again — will force me to quit 
the next place in which I may find refuge, as I quit- 
ted this." 

*' Are you so determined, Lizzie — forgive the word I 
am going to use, for it is hteral truth— to fly from a 
lover ?" 

" I am so determined," she answered resolutely, 
though trembling, "to fly from such a lover. There 
was a poor woman died here but a little while ago, 



154 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

scores of years older than I am, whom I found by- 
chance, lying on the wet earth. You may have 
heard some account of her ?" 

" I think I have," he answered, " if her name was 
Higden?" 

" Her name was Higden. Though she was so 
weak and old, she kept true to one purpose to the 
very last. Even at the very last, she made me 
promise that her purpose should be kept to, after she 
was dead, so settled was her determination. What 
she did, I can do. Mr. Wrayburn, if I believed — 
but I do not believe — that you could be so cruel to 
me as to drive me from place to place to wear me 
out, you should drive me to death and not do it." 

He looked full at her handsome face, and in his 
own handsome face there was a hght of blended ad- 
miration, anger and reproach, which she — who loved 
him so in secret — whose heart had long been so full, 
and he the cause of its overflowing — drooped before. 
She tried hard to retain her firmness, but he saw it 
melting away under his eyes. In the moment of its 
dissolution, and of his first full knowledge of his 
influence upon her, she drooped, and he caught 
her on his arm. 

"Lizzie! Rest so a moment. Answer what I 
ask you. If I had not been what you call removed 
from you and cut off from you, would you have made 
this appeal to me to leave you ?" 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 155 

" I don't know, I don't know. Don't ask me, 
Mr. Wrayburn. Let me go back. " 

" I swear to you, Lizzie, you shall go directly. I 
swear to you, you shall go alone. I'll not accom- 
pany you, I'll not follow you, if you w-ill reply." 

" How can I, Mr. Wrayburn ? How can I tell you 
what I should have done, if you had not been what 
you are ?" 

" If I had not been what you make me out to be," 
he struck in, skillfully changing the form of words, 
" would you still have hated me i* " 

" O Mr. Wrayburn," she replied appealing, and 
weeping, " you know me better than to think 1 do ! " 

*' If I had not been what you make me out to be, 
Lizzie, would you still have been indifferent to 
me ? ' ' 

" O ^Ir. Wrayburn," she answered as before, " you 
know me better than that too ! " 

There was something in the attitude of her whole 
figure as he supported it, and she hung her head, 
which besought him to be merciful and not force her 
to disclose her heart. He was not merciful witli her, 
and he made her do it. 

" If I know you better than quite to believe (unfor- 
tunate dog though I am !) that you hate me, or even 
that you are wholly Indifferent to nie Lizzie, let me 
know so much more from yourselt before we separate. 
Let me know how you would have dealt with me if 



156 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

you had regarded me as being what you would have 
considered on equal terms with you." 

" It is impossible Mr. Wrayburn. How can I think 
of you as being on equal terms with me ? If my mind 
could put you on equal terms with me, you could not 
be yourself. How could I remember, then, the night 
when I first saw you, and when I went out of the 
room because you looked at me so attentively ? Or, 
the night that passed into the morning when you 
broke to me that my father was dead ? Or, the 
nights when you used to come to see me at my next 
home ? Or, your having known how uninstructed I was 
and having caused me to be taught better ? Or, my 
having so looked up to you and wondered at you, 
and at first thought you so good to be at all mindful 
of me ?'' 

** Only ' at first ' thought me so good, Lizzie ? What 
did you think me after ' at first ? ' So bad ? " 

" I don't say that. I don't mean that. But after 
the first wonder and pleasure of being noticed by one 
so different from any one who had ever spoken to 
me, I began to feel that it might have been better if 
I had never seen you." 

" Why ? " 

'* Because you 7e/ere so different/' she answered in 
a lower voice. " Because it was so endless, so hope- 
less. Spare me.'' 

" Did you think for me at all, Lizzie ?'' he asked, 
as if he were a little stung. 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 1 57 

" Not much, Mr. Wrayburn. Not much until to- 
night.*' 

" Will you tell me why ?" 

" I never supposed until to night that you needed 
to be thought for. But if you need to be ; if you do 
truly feel at heart that you have indeed been towards 
me what you have called yourself to-night, and that 
there is nothing for us in this life but separation ; 
then Heaven help you, and Heaven bless you ! '* 

The purity with which in these words she expressed 
something of her own love and her own suffering, 
made a deep impression on him for the passing time. 
He held her, almost as if she were sanctified to him 
by death, and kissed her, once, almost as he might 
have kissed the dead. 

'' I promised that I would not accompany you, nor 
follow you. Shall I keep you in view ? You have 
been agitated, and it's growing dark." 

" I am used to be out alone at this hour, and I 
entreat you not to do so.'' 

" I promise. I can bring myself to promise noth- 
ing more to-night, Lizzie, except that I will try what 
1 can do." 

" There is but one means, Mr. Wrayburn, of spar- 
ing yourself and of sparing me, every way. Leave 
this neighborhood to-morrow morning." 

" I will try." 

As he spoke the words in a grave voice, she put 



158 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

her hand in his, removed it, and went away by the 
riverside. 

'* Now, could Mortimer beheve this ? '* murmured 
Eugene, still remaining, after a while, where she had 
left him. " Can I even believe it myself?'' 

He referred to the circumstance that there were 
tears upon his hand, as he stood covering his eyes. 
"A most ridiculous position this, to be found out in ! *' 
was his next thought. And his next struck its root 
in a little rising resentment against the cause of 
the tears. 

"Yet I have gained a wonderful power over her, 
too, let her be as much in earnest as she will ! " 

The reflection brought back the yielding of her 
face and form as she had drooped under his gaze. 
Contemplating the reproduction, he seemed to see, 
for the second time, in the appeal and in the con- 
fession of weakness, a little fear. 

"And she loves me. And so earnest a char- 
acter must be very earnest in that passion. She 
cannot choose for herself to be strong in this fancy, 
wavering in that, and weak in the other. She must 
go through with her nature, as I must go through 
with mine. If mine exacts its pains and penalties all 
round, so must hers, I suppose." 

Pursuing the inquiry into his own nature, he 
thought, " Now, if I married her. If, outfacing the 
absurdity of the situation in correspondence with M. 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 1 59 

R. F., I astonished M. R. F. to the utmost extent of 
his respected powers, by informing him that I had 
married her, how would M. R. F. reason with the legal 
mind ? ' You wouldn't marry for some money and 
some station, because you were frightfully likely to 
become bored. Are you less frightfully likely to be 
come bored, marrying for no money and no station ? 
Are you sure of yourself ?' Legal mind, in spite of 
forensic protestations, must secretly admit, ' Good 
reasoning on the part of M. R. F. Not sure of myself.' " 

In the very act of calling this tone of levity to his 
aid, he felt it to be profligate and worthless, and 
asserted her against it. 

" And yet," said Eugene, " I should like to see 
the fellow (Mortimer excepted) who would undertake 
to tell me that this was not a real sentiment on my 
part, won out of me by her beauty and her worth, in 
spite of myself, and that I would not be true to her. 
I should particularly like to see the fellow to-night who 
would tell me so, or would tell me anything that could 
be construed to her disadvantage ; for I am wearily 
out of sorts with one Wrayburn who cuts a sorry 
figure, and I would rather be out of sorts with some- 
body else. ' Eugene, Eugene, Eugene, this is a bad 
business.' Ah ! so go the Mortimer Lightwood bells, 
and they sound melancholy to-night." 

Strolling on, he thought of something else to take 
himself to task for. " Where is the analogy. Brute 



l60 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Beast," he said impatiently, between a woman whom 
your father coolly finds out for you and a woman 
whom you have found, Eugene, out for yourself, and 
have ever drifted after with more and more of con- 
stancy since you first set eyes upon her ? Ass ! Canst 
thou reason no better than that ? 

But, again he subsided into a reminiscence of his 
first full knowledge of his power just now, and of her 
disclosure of her heart. To try no more to go away, 
and to try her again, was the reckless conclusion it 
turned uppermost. And yet again, Eugene, Eugene, 
this is a bad business ! " And, " I wish 1 could stop 
the Lightwood peal, for it sounds hke a knell." 

Looking above, he found that the young moon was 
up, and that the stars were beginning to shine in the 
sky from which the tones of red and yellow were 
flickering out, in favor of the calm blue of a summer 
night. He was still by the riverside. Turning sud- 
denly, he met a man, so close upon him that Eugene, 
surprised, stepped back, to avoid a collision. The 
man carried something over his shoulder which 
might have been a broken oar, or spar, or bar, and 
took no notice of him, but passed on. 

" Hallo, friend ! " said Eugene, calling after him, 
''are you blind ? '' 

The man made no reply, but went his way. 

Eugene Wrayburn went the opposite way, with his 
hands behind him and his purpose in his thoughts. 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. l6l 

He passed the sheep, and passed the gate, and came 
within hearing of the village sounds, and came to the 
bridge. The inn where he stayed, Hke the village 
and the mill, was not across the river, but on that 
side of the stream on which he walked. However, 
knowing the rushy bank and back-water on the 
other side to be a retired place, and feeling out of 
humor for noises or company, he crossed the bridge, 
and sauntered on : looking up at the stars as they 
seemed one by one to be kindled in the sky, and 
looking down at the river as the same stars seemed 
to be kindled deep in the water. A landing-place 
overshadowed by a willow, and a pleasure-boat 
lying moored there among some stakes, caught his 
eye as he passed along. The spot was in such dark 
shadow, that he paused to make out what was there, 
and then passed on again. 

The rippling of the river seemed to cause a corres- 
pondent stir in his uneasy reflections. He would 
have laid them asleep if he could, but they were in 
movement, like the stream, and all tending one way 
with a strong current. As the ripple under the moon 
broke unexpectedly now and then, and plainly 
flashed in a new shape and with a new sound, so 
parts of his thoughts started, unbidden, from the rest, 
and revealed their wickedness. " Out of the question 
to marry her," said Eugeue, " and out of the ques- 
iton to leave her. The crisis ! " 



1 62 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

He had sauntered far enough. Before turning to 
retrace his steps, he stopped upon the margin, to 
look down at the reflected night. In an instant, with 
a dreadful crash, the reflected night turned crooked, 
flames shot jaggedly across the air, and the moon 
and stars came bursting from the sky. 

Was he struck by hghtning ? With some inco- 
herent half-formed thought to that effect, he turned 
under the blows that were blinding him and mashing 
his life, and closed with a murderer, whom he caught 
by a red neckerchief — unless the raining down of 
his own blood gave it that hue. 

Eugene was light, active, and expert ; but his arms 
were broken, or he was paralyzed, and could do no 
more than hang on to the man, with his head swung 
back, so that he could see nothing but the heaving 
sky. After dragging at the assailant, he fell on the 
bank with him, and then there was another great 
crash, and then a splash, and all was done. 

Lizzie Hexam, too, had avoided the noise, and the 
Saturday movement of people in the struggling street, 
and chose to walk alone by the water until her tears 
should be dry, and she could so compose herself as 
to escape remark upon her looking ill or unhappy 
on going home. The peaceful serenity of the hour 
and place, having no reproaches or evil intentions 
within her breast to contend against, sank heahngly 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 1 63 

into its depths. She had meditated and taken com- 
fort. She, too, was turning homeward, when she 
heard a strange sound. 

It startled her, for it was hke a sound of blows. She 
stood still and listened. It sickened her, for blows 
fell heavily and cruelly on the quiet of the night. As 
she listened, undecided, all was silent. As she list- 
ened, she heard a faint groan, and a fall into the 
river. 

Her old bold life and habit instantly inspired her. 
Without vain waste of breath in crying for help 
where there none to hear, she ran toward the spot 
from which the sounds had come. It lay between 
her and the bridge, but it was more removed from 
her than she had thought : the night being so very 
quiet, and sound traveling far with the help of water. 

At length, she reached a part of the green bank, 
much and newly trodden, where there lay some 
broken splintered pieces of wood and some torn 
fragments of clothes. Stooping, she savv that the 
grass was bloody. Following the drops and smears, 
she saw that the watery margin of the bank was 
bloody. Following the current with her eyes, she 
saw a bloody face turned up toward the moon, and 
drifting away. 

Now, merciful Heaven be thanked for that old 
time, and grant, O Blessed Lord, that through thy 
wonderful workings it may turn to good at last ! To 



164 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

whomsoever the drifting face belongs, be it man's or 
woman's, help my humble hands, Lord God, to raise 
it from death and restore it to some one to whom it 
must be dear ! 

It was thought, fervently thought, but not for a 
moment did the prayer check her. She was away 
before it welled up in her mind, away, swift and true, 
yet steady above all — for without steadiness it could 
never be done — to the landing-place under the wil- 
low tree, where she also had seen the boat lying 
moored among the stakes. 

A sure touch of her old practised hand, a sure step 
of her old practised foot, a sure light balance of her 
body, and she was in the boat. A quick glance of 
her practised eye showed her, even through the deep 
dark shadow, the sculls in a rack against the red- 
brick garden-wall. Another moment, and she cast 
off (taking the line with her), and the boat had shot 
out into the moonlight, and she was rowing down the 
stream as never other woman rowed on English water. 

Intently over her shoulder, with slackening speed, 
she looked ahead for the driving face. She passed 
the scene of the struggle — yonder it was, on her left, 
well over the boat's stern — she passed on her right, 
the end of the village street, a hilly street that almost 
dipped into the river; its sounds were growing faint 
again, and she slackened ; looking as the boat drove 
everywhere, everywhere, for the floating face. 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 1 65 

She merely kept the boat before the stream now, 
and rested on her oars, knowing well that if the face 
were not soon visible, it had gone down, and she 
would over-shoot it. An untrained sight would 
never have seen by the moonlight what she saw at 
the length of a few strokes astern. She saw the 
drowning figure rise to the surface, slightly struggle, 
and as if by instinct turn over on its back to float. 
Just so had she firmly seen the face which she now 
dimly saw again. 

Firm of look and firm of purpose, she intently 
watched its coming on, until it was very near; then, 
with a touch unshipped her sculls, and crept aft in 
the boat, between kneeling and crouching. Once, 
she let the body evade her, not being sure of her grasp. 
Twice, and she had seized it by its bloody hair. 

It was insensible, if not virtually dead ; it was 
mutilated, and streaked the water all about it with 
dark red streaks. As it could not help itself, it was 
impossible for her to get it on board. She bent over 
the stern to secure it with the line, and. then the river 
and its shores rang to the terrible cry she uttered. 

But, as if possessed by supernatural spirit and 
strength, she lashed it safe, resumed her seat, and 
rowed in, desperately, for the nearest shallow water 
where she might run the boat aground. Desperately 
but not wildly, for she knew that if she lost distinct- 
ness of intention, all was lost and gone. 



1 66 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

She ran the boat ashore, went into the water, re- 
leased him from the hne, and by main strength 
lifted him in her arms and laid him in the bottom of 
the boat. He had fearful wounds upon him, and 
she bound them up with her dress torn into strips. 
Else, supposing him to be still alive, she foresaw that 
he must bleed to death before he could be landed at 
his inn, which was the nearest place for succor. This 
done very rapidly, she kissed his disfigured forehead, 
looked up in anguish to the stars, and blessed him 
and forgave him, " if she had anything to forgive." 
It was only in that instant that she thought of herself, 
and then she thought of herself only for him. 

Now, merciful Heaven be thanked for that old 
time, enabling me without a wasted moment, to have 
got the boat afloat again, and to row back against 
the stream ! And grant, O Blessed Lord God, that 
through poor me he may be raised from death, and 
preserved to some one else to whom he may be dear 
one day, though never dearer than to me ! 

She rowed hard — rowed desperately, but never 
wildly — and seldom removed her eyes from him in 
the bottom of the boat. She had so laid him there, 
as that she might see his disfigured face ; it was so 
much disfigured that his mother might have covered 
it, but it was above and beyond disfigurement in her 
eyes. 

The boat touched the edge of the patch of inn 



OUR MUTUAL PRIEND. I67 

lawn, sloping gently to the water. There were 
hghts in the windows, but there chanced to be no 
one out of doors. She made the boat fast, and again 
by main strength took him up, and never laid him 
down until she laid him down in the house. 

Surgeons were sent for, and she sat supporting his 
head. She had oftentimes heard in days that were 
gone, how doctors would lift the hand of an insensi- 
ble wounded person, and would drop it if the person 
were dead. She waited for the awful moment when 
the doctors might lift this hand, all broken and 
bruised, and let it fall. 

The first of the surgeons came, and asked, before 
proceeding to his examination, " Who brought him 
in?" 

'' I brought him in, sir ! " answered Lizzie, at whom 
all present looked. 

" You, my dear ? You could not lift, far less 
carry this weight." 

" I think I could not, at another time, sir; but I 
am sure I did." 

The surgeon looked at her with great attention, 
and with some compassion. Having with a grave 
face touched the wounds upon the head, and the 
broken arms, he took the hand. 

Oh ! would he let it drop. 

He appeared irresolute. He did not retain it, but 
laid it gently down, took a candle, looked more 



1 68 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

closely at the injuries on the head, and at the pupils 
of the eyes. That done, he replaced the candle 
and took the hand again. Another surgeon then 
coming in, the two exchanged a whisper, and the 
second took the hand. Neither did he let it fall at 
once, but kept it for a while and laid it gently down. 
"Attend to the poor girl," said the first surgeon 
then. " She is quite unconscious. She sees nothing 
and hears nothing. All the better for her ! Don't 
rouse her, if you can help it ; only move her. Poor 
girl, poor girl ! She must be amazingly strong of 
heart, but it is much to be feared that she has set her 
heart upon the dead. Be gentle with her." 



A DARKENED and hushed room ; the river outside 
the windows flowing on to the vast ocean ; a figure 
on the bed, swathed and bandaged and bound, lying 
helpless on its back, with its two useless arms in 
sphnts at its sides. Only two days of usage so famil- 
iarized the little dressmaker with this scene, that it 
held the place occupied two days ago by the recol- 
lections of years. 

He had scarcely moved since her arrival. Some- 
times his eyes were open, sometimes closed. When 
they were open, there was no meaning in their un- 
winking stare at one spot straight before them, un- 
less for a minute the brow knitted into a faint expres- 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 1 69 

sion of anger, or surprise. Then, Mortimer Light- 
wood would speak to him, and on occasions he 
would be so far roused as to make an attempt to 
pronounce his friend's name. But, in an instant 
consciousness was gone again, and no spirit of 
Eugene was in Eugene's crushed outer form. 

They provided Jenny with materials for plying her 
work, and she had a little table placed at the foot of 
his bed. Sitting there, with her rich shower of hair 
falling over the chair-back, they hoped she might 
attract his notice. With the same object, she would 
sing, just above her breath, when he opened his eyes, 
or she saw his brow knit into that faint expression, 
so evanescent that it was like a shape made in water. 
But as yet he had not heeded. The "they" here 
mentioned were the medical attendant ; Lizzie, who 
was there in all her intervals of rest ; and Lightwood, 
who never left him. 

The two days became three, and the three days 
became four. At length, quite unexpectedly, he said 
something in a whisper. 

'' What was it, my dear Eugene?" 

"Will you, Mortimer " 

"Willi ?" 

"Send for her?" 

" My dear fellow, she is here." 

The little dressmaker stood up at the foot of the 
bed, humming her song, and nodded to him brightly, 



170 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

"I can't shake hands, Jenny," said Eugene, with 
something of his old look ; " but I am very glad to 
see you." 

Mortimer repeated this to her, for it could only be 
made out by bending over him and closely watching 
his attempts to say it. . . . 

" Stay and help to nurse me," said Eugene, quietly. 

She touched his Hps with her hand, and shaded 
her eyes with the same hand as she went back to her 
work and her little song. He heard the song with 
evident pleasure, until she allowed it gradually to 
sink away into silence. 

"Mortimer." 

" My dear Eugene." 

'* If you can give me anything to keep me here for 
only a few minutes " 

'* To keep you here, Eugene? " 

" To prevent my wandering away I don't know 
where — for I begin to be sensible that I have just 
come back, and that I shall lose myself again — do 
so, dear boy ! " 

Mortimer gave him such stimulants as could be 
given him with safety (they were always ^t hand, 
ready), and bending over him once more, was about 
to caution him, when he said : 

" Don't tell me not to speak, for I must speak. If 
you knew the harassing anxiety that gnaws and wears 
me when I am wandering in those places — where are 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. I/I 

those endless places, Mortimer ? They must be at 
an immense distance ! " 

He saw in his friend's face that he was losing him- 
self; for he added after a moment : " Don't be afraid 
— I am not gone yet. What was it ? " 

" You wanted to tell me something, Eugene. My 
poor dear fellow, you wanted to say something to 
your old friend — to the friend who has always loved 
you, admired you, imitated you, founded himself 
upon you, been nothing without you, and who, 
God knows, would be here in your place if he 
could." 

" Tut, tut! " said Eugene with a tender glance as 
the other put his hand before his face. " I am not 
worth it. I acknowledge that I like it, dear boy, but 
I am not worth it. This attack, my dear Mortimer ; 
this murder " 

His friend leaned over him with renewed attention, 
saying: "You and I suspect some one." 

" More than suspect. But, Mortimer, while I lie 
here, and when I lie here no longer, I trust to you 
that the perpetrator is never brought to justice." 

" Eugene ? " 

" Her innocent reputation would be ruined, my 
friend. She would be punished, not he. I have 
wronged her enough in fact ; I have wronged her 
still more in intention. You recollect what pavement 
is said to be made of good intentions. It is made of 



1/2 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

bad intentions too. Mortimer, I am lying on it, and 
I know ! " 

" Be comforted, my dear Eugene." 

" I will, when you have promised me. Dear Mor- 
timer, the man must never be pursued. If he should 
be accused, you must keep him silent and save him. 
Don't think of avenging me ; think only of hushing 
the story and protecting her. Ycu can confuse the 
case, and turn aside the circumstances. Listen to 
what I say to you. It was not the schoolmaster, 
Bradley Headstone. Do you hear me ? Twice ; it 
was not the schoolmaster, Bradley Headstone. Do 
you hear me ? Three times ; it was not the school- 
master, Bradley Headstone." 

He stopped, exhausted. His speech had been 
whispered, broken, and indistinct; but by a great 
effort he had made it plain enough to be unmistaka- 
ble. 

" Dear fellow, I am wandering away. Stay me for 
another moment, if you can." 

Lightwood lifted his head at the neck, and put a 
wine glass to his lips. He rallied. 

" I don't know how long ago it was done, whether 
weeks, days or hours. No matter. There is inquiry 
on foot, and pursuit. Say ! Is there not ? '' 

"Yes." 

" Check it ; divert it ! Don't let her be brought in 
question. Shield her. The guilty man, brought to 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 1 73 

justice, would poison her name. Let the guilty man 
go unpunished. Lizzie and my reparation before 
all! Promise me! " 

" Eugene, I do. I promise you.** 

In the act of turning his eyes gratefully toward his 
friend, he wandered away. His eyes stood still, and 
settled into that former intent unmeaning stare. 

Hours and hours, days and nights, he remained in 
this same condition. There were times when he 
would calmly speak to his friend after a long period 
of unconsciousness, and would says he was better, 
and would ask for something. Before it could be 
given him, he would be gone again. 

The dolls' dressmaker, all softened compassion 
now, watched him with an earnestness that never 
relaxed. She would regularly change the ice, or the 
cooling spirit, on his head, and would keep her ear 
at the pillow between-whiles, listening for any faint 
words that fell from him in his wanderings. It was 
amazing through how many hours at a time she 
would remain beside him, in a crouching attitude, 
attentive to his sHghtcst moan. As he could not 
move a hand, he could make no sign of distress ; 
but, through this close watching (if through no secret 
sympathy or power) the little creature attained an 
understanding of him that Lightwood did not possess. 
Mortimer would often turn to her, as if she were an 
interpreter between this sentient world and the in 



174 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

sensible man ; and she would change the dressing of 
a wound, or ease a Hgature, or turn his face, or alter 
the pressure of the bed-clothes on him, with an ab- 
solute certainty of doing right. The natural lightness 
and delicacy of touch which had become very refined 
by practice in her miniature work, no doubt was in- 
volved in this ; but her perception was at least as 
fine. 

The one word, Lizzie, he muttered miUions of 
times. In a certain phase of his distressful state, 
which was the worst to those who tended himx, he 
would roll his head upon the pillow, incessantly re- 
peating the name in a hurried and impatient manner, 
with the misery of a disturbed mind, and the monot- 
ony of a machine. Equally, when he lay still and 
staring, he would repeat it for hours without cessa- 
tion, but then always in a tone of subdued warning 
and horror. Her presence and her touch upon his 
breast or face would often stop this, and then they 
learned to expect that he would for some time remain 
still, with his eyes closed, and that he would be con- 
scious on opening them. But, the heavy disappoint- 
ment of their hope — revived by the welcome silence 
of the room — was, that his spirit would glide away 
again and be lost, in the moment of their joy that it 
was there. 

This frequent rising of a drowning man from the 
deep, to sink again, was dreadful to the beholders. 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 175 

But gradually the change stole upon him that it be- 
came dreadful to himself. 

His desire to impart something that was on his 
mind, his unspeakable yearning to have speech with 
his friend and make a communication to him, so 
troubled him when he recovered consciousness, that 
its term was thereby shortened. As the man rising 
from the deep would disappear the sooner for fight- 
ing with the water, so he in his desperate struggle 
went down again. 

One afternoon when he had been lying still, and 
Lizzie unrecognized, had just stolen out of the room 
to pursue her occupation, he uttered Lightwood's 
name. 

"My dear Eugene. I am here.'' 

'* How long is this to last, Mortimer ? " 

Lightwood shook his head. " Still, Eugene, you 
are no worse than you were." 

" But I know there's no hope. Yet I pray it may 
last long enough for you to do me one last service, 
and for me to do one last action.' Keep me here a 
few moments, Mortimer. Try, try ! " 

His friend gave him what aid he could, and en- 
couraged him to believe that he was more composed, 
though even then his eyes were losing the expression 
they so rarely recovered. 

" Hold me here, dear fellow, if you can. Stop my 
wandering away. I am going !" 



176 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" Not yet, not yet. Tell me, dear Eugene, what is 
it I shall do?" 

" Keep me here for only a single minute. I am 
going away again. Don't let me go. Hear me 
speak first. Stop me — stop me ! " 

" My poor Eugene, try to be calm," 

" I do try. I try so hard, If you only knew how 
hard ! Don't let me wander till I have spoken. 
Give me a little more wine." 

Lightwood complied. Eugene, with a most pathetic 
struggle against the unconsciousness that was com- 
ing over him, and with a look of appeal that affected 
his friend profoundly, said : 

" You can leave me with Jenny, while you speak 
to her and tell her what 1 beseech of her. You can 
leave me with Jenny, while you are gone. There's 
not much for you to do. You won't be long away." 

" No, no, no. But tell me what it is that I shall 
do, Eugene! " 

" I am going ! You can't hold me." 

" Tell me in a word, Eugene ! " 

His eyes were fixed again, and the only word that 
came from his lips was the word millions of times 
repeated. Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie. 

But the watchful little dressmaker had been vigi- 
lant as ever in her watch, and she now came up and 
touched Lightwood' s arm as he looked down at his 
friend, despairingly. 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 1 77 

" Hush ! " she said, with her finger on her hps. 
" His eyes are closing. He'll be conscious when he 
next opens them. Shall I give you a leading word 
to say to him ? " 

"Oh, Jenny, if you could only give me the right 
word ! " 

" I can. Stoop down," 

He stooped, and she whispered in his ear. She 
whispered in his ear one short word of a single sylla- 
ble. Lightwood started, and looked at her. 

" Try it," said the little creature, with an excited 
and exultant face. She then bent over the uncon- 
scious man, and, for the first time, kissed him on the 
cheek, and kissed the poor maimed hand that was 
nearest her. Then she withdrew to the foot of the 
bed. 

Some two hours afterward, Mortimer Lightwood 
saw his friend's consciousness come back, and in- 
stantly, but very tranquilly, bent over him. 

" Don't speak, Eugene. Do no more than look at 
me, and listen to me. You follow what I say ? " 

He moved his head in assent. 

" I am going on from the point where we broke 
off. Is the word we should have come to — is it — 
Wife?" 

" Oh, God bless you, Mortimer ! " 

" Hush ! don't be agitated. Don't speak. Hear 
me, dear Eugene. Your mind will be more at peace, 

12 



178 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

lying here, if you make Lizzie your wife. You wish 
me to speak to her, and tell her so, and entreat her 
to be your wife. You ask her to kneel at this bed- 
side and be married to you, that your reparation may 
be complete. Is that so ? '' 
" Yes. God bless you ! Yes.'' 
" It shall be done, Eugene. Trust it to me. I 
shall have to go away for some few hours, to give 
effect to your wishes. You see this is unavoid- 
able?" 

" Dear friend, I said so." 

" True. But I had not the clue then. How do 
you think I got it?" 

Glancing wistfully around, Eugene saw Miss Jenny 
at the foot of the bed, looking at him with her elbows 
on the bed, and her head upon her hands. There 
was a trace of his whimsical air upon him, as he 
tried to smile at her. 

"Yes, indeed," said Lightwood, "the discovery 
was hers. Observe, my dear Eugene ; while I am 
away you will know that I have discharged my trust 
with Lizzie, by finding her here, in my present place 
at your bedside, to leave you no more. A final word 
before I go. This is the right course of a true man, 
Eugene. And I solemnly believe, with all my soul, 
that if Providence should mercifully restore you to 
us, you will be blessed with a noble wife in the pre- 
server of your life, whom you will dearly love." 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. I/Q 

"Amen. I am sure of that. But I shall not come 
through it, Mortimer.'' 

" You will not be the less hopeful or less strong 
for this, Eugene." 

"' No. Touch my face with yours, in case I should 
not hold out till you come back. I love you Morti- 
mer. Don't be uneasy for me while you are gone. 
If my dear brave girl will take me, I feel persuaded 
that I shall live long enough to be married, dear fel- 
low.'' 

Miss Jenny gave up altogether on this parting tak- 
ing place between the friends, and sitting with her 
back toward the bed in the bower made by her 
bright hair, wept heartily, though noiselessly. Mor- 
timer Lightwood was soon gone. As the evening 
light lengthened the heavy reflections of the trees in 
the river, another figure came with a soft step into 
the sick room. 

*' Is he conscious? '' asked the little dressmaker, 
as the figure took its station by the pillow. For 
Jenny had given place to it immediately, and could 
not see the sufferer's face, in the dark room, from 
her new and removed position. 

" He is conscious, Jenny," murmured Eugene for 
himself. " He knows his wife." 



Far on in the night, Eugene opened his eyes. He 



l8o MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

was sensible, and said at once : " How does the 
time go ? Has our Mortimer come back ?" 

Lightwood was there immediately, to answer for 
himself. "Yes, Eugene, and all is ready." 

" Dear boy !" returned Eugene, with a smile, " we 
both thank you heartily. Lizzie, tell them how wel- 
come they are, and that I would be eloquent if I 
could." 

'' There is no need," said Mr. Milvey. ''We know 
it. Are you better, Mr. Wrayburn ?" 

" I am much happier,'' said Eugene. 

" Much better too, 1 hope ?" 

Eugene turned his eyes toward Lizzie, as if to 
spare her, and answered nothing. 

Then they all stood around the bed, and Mr. Mil- 
vey, opening his book, began the service ; so rarely 
associated with the shadow of death ; so inseparable 
in the mind from a flush of life and gayety and hope 
and health and joy. Mrs. Milvey overflowed with 
pity, and wept. The doll's dressmaker, with her 
hands before her face, wept in her golden bower. 
Reading in a low clear voice, and bending over Eu- 
gene, who kept his eyes upon him, Mr. Milvey did 
his office with suitable simplicity. As the bridegroom 
could not move his hand, they touched his fingers 
with the ring, and so put it on the bride. When 
the two plighted their troth, she laid her hand on his 
and kept it there. When the ceremony was done, 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. l8l 

and all the rest departed from the room, she drew 
her arm under his head, and laid her own head down 
upon the pillow by his side. 

" Undraw the curtains, my dear girl," said Eu- 
gene, after a while, " and let us see our wedding- 
day." 

The sun was rising, and his first rays struck into 
the room as she came back and put her lips to his. 
" I bless the day !" said Eugene. "1 bless the day!" 
said Lizzie. 

" You have made a poor marriage of it, my sweet 
wife," said Eugene. "A shattered graceless fellow, 
stretched at his length here, and next to nothing for 
you when you are a young widow." 

*' I have made the marriage that I would have 
given all the world to dare to hope for," she replied. 

"You have thrown yourself away," said Eugene, 
shaking his head. " But you have followed the 
treasure of your heart. My justification is, that you 
have thrown that away first, dear girl!" 

" No. I had given it to you." 

"The same thing, my poor Lizzie !" 

" Hush, hush ! A very different thing." 

There were tears in his eyes, and she besought 
him to close them. " No," said Eugene, shaking 
his head ; " Let me look at you, Lizzie, while I can 
You brave devoted girl! You heroine !" 

Her own eyes filled under his praises. And when 



1 82 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

he mustered strength to move his wounded head a 
very Httle way, and lay it on her bosom, the tears of 
both fell. 

" Lizzie," said Eugene, after a silence: "when you 
see me wandering away from this refuge that I have 
so ill deserved, speak to me by my name, and I think 
I shall come back." 

"Yes, dear Eugene." 

"There !" he exclaimed, smiling. " I should have 
gone then but for that !" 

A little while afterward, when he appeared to be 
sinking into insensibility, she said, in a calm loving 
voice : " Eugene, my dear husband !" He imme- 
diately answered : " There again ! You see how 
you can recall me !" and afterward, when he could 
not speak, he still answered by a slight movement of 
his head upon her bosom. 

The sun was high in the sky when she gently dis- 
engaged herself to give him the stimulants and nour- 
ishment he required. The utter helplessness of the 
wreck of him that lay cast ashore there now alarmed 
her, but he himself appeared a little more hopeful. 

"Ah, my beloved Lizzie !" he said, faintly. "How 
shall I ever pay all 1 owe you, if I recover !" 

" Don't be ashamed of me," she replied, "and you 
will have more than paid all.'' 

" It would require a life, Lizzie, to pay all ; more 
than a life." 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 1 83 

" Live for that, then ; live for me, Eugene ; live to 
see how hard I will try to improve myself, and never 
to discredit you." 

" My darling girl," he replied, rallying more of 
his old manner than he had ever yet got together. 
" On the contrary, I have been thinking whether it 
is not the best thing I can do, to die." 

" The best thing you can do, to leave me with a 
broken heart?" 

" I don't mean that, my dear girl. I was not 
thinking of that. What I was thinking of was this. 
Out of your compassion for me, in this maimed and 
broken state, you make so much of me — you think 
so well of me — you love so dearly !" 

" Heaven knows I love you dearly!" 

" And Heaven knows I prize it ! Well. If I live, 
you'll find me out." 

" I shall find out that my husband has amine of pur- 
pose and energy, and will turn it to the best account?" 

" I hope so, dearest Lizzie," said Eugene, wistfully, 
and yet somewhat whimsically. " I hope so. But I 
can't summon the vanity to think so. How can I 
think so, looking back on such a trifling, wasted 
youth as mine ! I humbly hope it ; but I daren't be- 
lieve it. There is a sharp misgiving in my con- 
science that if I were to live, I should disappoint 
your good opinion and my own — and that I ought to 
die, my dear !" 



184 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 



But, the greatest event of all, in the new li/e of 
Mr. and Mrs. John Harmon, was a visit from Mr. 
and Mrs. Eugene Wrayburn. Sadly wan and worn 
was the once gallant Eugene, and walked resting on 
his wife's arm, and leaning heavily upon a stick. 
But, he was daily growing stronger and better, and 
it was declared by the medical attendants that he 
might not be much disfigured by and by. 

To Mr, Eugene Wrayburn, in confidence, did 
Mrs. John Harmon impart what she had known of 
the state of his wife's affections, in his reckless time. 
And to Mrs. John Harmon, in confidence, did Mr. 
Eugene Wrayburn impart that, please God, she 
should see how his wife had changed him. 

" I make no protestations," said Eugene ; *' — who 
does, who means them ! — I have made a resolution." 

" But would you believe, Bella," interposed his 
wife, coming to resume her nurse's place at his side, 
for he never got on well without her : " that on our 
wedding day he told me he almost thought the best 
thing he could do, was to die ? " 

"As I didn't do it, Lizzie," said Eugene, " I'll do 
that better thing you suggested — for your sake." 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 



185 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 



" 1\[^^'^'" ^^^^ Wardle, after a substantial lunch, 
with the agreeable items of strong-beer and 
cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to; 
" what say you to an hour on the ice ? We shall 
have plenty of time." 

" Capital ! " said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

" Prime ! '' ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle. 

"Ye-yes ; oh, yes," replied Mr. Winkle. " I— I— 
am rather owl of practice." 

" Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. " I 
like to see it so much." 

" Oh, it is so graceful," said another young lady. 

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a 
fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swan- 
like." 

" I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. 
Winkle, reddening; "but I have no skates." 

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle 
had a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that 
there were half-a-dozen more down stairs ; whereat 

187 



1 88 MASTERPJECES FROM DICKENS. 

Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked 
exquisitely uncomfortable. 

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of 
ice ; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller, having shovelled 
and swept away the snow which had fallen on it dur- 
ing the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates 
with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly 
marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, 
and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, 
without once stopping for breath, a great many other 
pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive 
satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman and the 
ladies ;which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm, 
when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by 
the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic 
evolutions, which they called a reel. 

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands 
blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into 
the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on, with 
the points behind, and getting the straps into a very 
complicated and entangled state, with the assistance 
of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates 
than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assis- 
tance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were 
firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle 
was raised to his feet. 

" Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging 
tone ; " off vith you, and show 'em how to do it." 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 1 89 

" Stop, Sam, stop ! " said Mr. Winkle, trembling 
violently, and clutching hold of Sam's arms with the 
grasp of a drowning man. " How shppery it is, 
Sam ! " 

"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied 
Mr. Weller. " Hold up, sir ! " 

This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore refer- 
ence to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the in- 
stant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, 
and dash the back of his head on the ice. 

" These — these — are very awkward skates ; ain't 
they, Sam ? " inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering. 

" I'm afeerd there's a orkard genTm'n in 'em, 
sir," replied Sam. 

" Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite uncon- 
scious that there was anything the matter. " Come ; 
the ladies are all anxiety.'' 

" Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly 
smile, " I'm coming." 

"Just a goin' to begin,'' said Sam, endeavoring to 
disengage himself. " Now, sir, start off ! " 

" Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, 
clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. " I find 
I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't want, 
Sam. You may have them, Sam.'' 

"Thank'ee. sir," replied Mr. Weller. 

"Nevermind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. 
Winkle, hastily. " You needn't take your hand away 



IQO MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings 
this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it 
you this afternoon, Sam." 

" You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller. 

"Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?" said Mr. 
Winkle. " There — that's right. I shall soon get in 
the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam ; not too fast." 

Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half 
doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. 
Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, 
when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from 
the opposite bank : 

" Sam ! " 

"Sir?" 

" Here. I want you." 

"Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the 
governor a callin' ? Let go, sir." 

With a violent efibrt, Mr. Weller disengaged him- 
self from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian, and, 
in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to 
the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which 
no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, 
that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into 
the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. 
Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled 
beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and 
with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. 
Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. I9I 

his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far to wise to do any- 
thing of the kind, in skates. He was seated on the 
ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile : but anguish 
was depicted on every lineament of his countenance. 

"Are you hurt? " inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, 
with great anxiety. 

" Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back 
very hard. 

" I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benja- 
min, with great eagerness. 

" No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly. 

" I really think you had better," said Allen. 

"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle; "I'd rather 
not." 

" What do you think, Mr. Pickwick ? " inquired Bob 
Sawyer. 

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He 
beckoned Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, 
" Take his skates off." 

"No; but really I had scarcely begun," remon- 
strated Mr. Winkle. 

" Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick 
firmly. 

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle 
allowed Sam to obey it in silence. 

"Lift hinVup," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted 
him to rise. 

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the 



192 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

by-standers ; and, beckoning his friend to approach, 
fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a 
low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable 
words : 

"You're a humbug, sir.'' 

" A what ? " said Mr. Winkle, starting. 

" A humbug, sir. I will speak plainly, if you wish 
it. An imposter, sir." 

With those words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on 
his heel, and rejoined his friends. 



The birds, who, happily for their own peace of 
mind and personal comfort, were in blissful ignor- 
ance of the preparations which had been making to 
astonish them, on the first of September, hailed it no 
doubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings they had 
seen that season. Many a young partridge who 
strutted complacently among the stubble, with all 
the finicking coxcombn.^ of youth, and many an older 
one who watched his levity out of his little round 
eye, with the contemptuous air of a bird of wisdom 
and experience, alike unconscious of their approach- 
ing doom, basked in the fresh morning air with lively 
and blithesome feelings, and a few hours afterwards 
were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affect- 
ing : let us proceed. 

In plain common-place matter-of-fact, then, it was 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. I93 

a fine morning — so fine that you would scarcely have 
believed that the few months of an English summer 
had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and 
moorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying 
shades of deep rich green ; scarce a leaf had fallen, 
scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of 
summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The 
sky was cloudless ; the sun shone out bright and 
warm ; the songs of birds, and hum of myriads of 
summer insects, filled the air ; and the cottage gar- 
dens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beauti- 
ful tint, sparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of 
glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of 
summer, and none of its beautiful colors had yet 
faded from the die. 

Such was the morning, when the open carriage, in 
which were three Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass hav- 
ing preferred to remain at home), Mr. Wardle, and 
Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the 
driver, pulled up by a gate at the road-side, before 
which stood a tall, raw-boned gamekeeper, and a 
half-booted, leather-leggined boy; each bearing a 
bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a 
brace of pointers. 

" I say," whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the 
man let down the steps, "they don't suppose we're 
going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do 
they?" 



194 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" Fill them ! " exclaimed old Wardle. " Bless you, 
yes ! You shall fill one, and I the other ; and when 
we've done with them, the pockets of our shooting- 
jackets will hold as much more." 

Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything 
in reply to this observation ; but he thought within 
himself, that if the party remained in the open air, 
until he had filled one of the bags, they stood a con- 
siderable chance of catching colds in their heads. 

" Hi, Juno, lass — hi, old girl ; down, Daph, down," 
said Wardle, caressing the dogs. " Sir Geoffrey still 
in Scotland, of course, Martin ? " 

The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, 
and looked with some surprise from Mr. Winkle, who 
was holding his gun as if he wished his coat-pocket 
to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr. 
Tupman, who was holding his as if he were afraid of 
it — as there is no earthly reason to doubt he really 
was. 

" My friends are not much in the way of this sort 
of thing yet, Martin," said Wardle, noticing the look. 
*' Live and learn, you know. They'll be good shots 
one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle's par- 
don, though; he has had some practice," 

Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue necker- 
chief in acknowledgment of the compliment, and 
got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun, 
in his modest confusion, that if the piece had been 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 1 95 

loaded, he must inevitably have shot himself dead 
upon the spot. 

"You mustn't handle your piece in that ere way, 
v^'hen you come to have the charge in it, sir," said 
the tall gamekeeper, gruffly, " or I'm damned if you 
won't make cold meat of some on us.'' 

Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered its 
position, and in so doing, contrived to bring the bar- 
rel into pretty sharp contact with Mr. Weller's head. 

" Hallo ! " said Sam, picking up his hat, which had 
been knocked off, and rubbing his temple. " Hallo, 
sir! if you comes it this vay, you'll fill one o' them 
bags, and something to spare, at one fire." 

Here the leather-leggined boy laughed very heart- 
ily, and then tried to look as if it was somebody else, 
whereat Mr. Winkle frowned majestically. 

" Where did you tell the boy to meet us with a 
snack, Martin?" inquired Wardle. 

" Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o'clock, sir." 

" That's not Sir Geoffrey's land, is it?" 

" No, sir ; but it's close by it. It's Captain Bold- 
wig's land ; but there'll be nobody to interrupt us, 
and there's a fine bit of turf there." 

"Very well," said old Wardle. " Now the sooner 
we're off the better. Will you join us at twelve then, 
Pickwick?" 

Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the 
sport, the more especially as he was rather anxious 



196 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

in respect of Mr. Winkle's life and limbs. On so in- 
viting a morning, too, it was very tantalizing to turn 
back, and leave his friends to enjoy themselves. 
It was, therefore, with a very rueful air that he re- 
phed. 

"Why, I suppose I must.'' 

"An't the gentleman a shot, sir?" inquired the 
long gamekeeper. 

" No," rephed Wardle ; *' and he's lame besides." 

" I should very much like to go," said Mr. Pick- 
wick, "very much." 

There was a short pause of commisseration. 

"There's a barrow t'other side of the hedge," said 
the boy. " If the gentleman's servant would wheel 
along the paths, he could keep nigh us, and we 
could lift it over the stiles, and that. 

"The wery thing," said Mr. Weller, who was a 
party interested, inasmuch as he ardently longed to 
see the sport. "The wery thing. Well said, Small- 
check ; I'll have it out in a minute." 

But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper 
resolutely protested against the introduction into a 
shooting party, of a gentleman in a barrow, as a 
gross violation of all established rules and prece- 
dents. 

It was a great objection, but not an unsurmounta- 
ble one. The gamekeeper having been coaxed and 
feed, and having, moreover, eased his mind by 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 1 9/ 

" punching" the head of the inventive youth who had 
first suggested the use of the machine, Mr. Pick- 
wick was placed in it, and off the party set ; Wardle 
and the long gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr. 
Pickwick in the barrow, propelled by Sam, bringing 
up in the rear. 

" Stop, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, when they had 
got half across the first field. 

*' What's the matter now ?" said Wardle. 

" I won't suffer this barrow to be moved another 
step," said Mr. Pickwick, resolutely, "unless Winkle 
carries that gun of his in a different manner." 

"How am I to carry it?" said the wretched 
Winkle. 

" Carry it with the m.uzzle to the ground," replied 
Mr. Pickwick. 

" It's so unsportsman-like,'' reasoned Winkle. 

" I don't care whether it's unsportsman-like or 
not," replied Mr. Pickwick ; " I am not going to be 
shot in a wheel-barrow, for the sake of appearances, 
to please anybody." 

*' I know the gentleman'll put that ere charge 
into somebody afore he's done," growled the long 
man. 

"Well, well — I don't mind," said poor Winkle, 
turning his gun-stock uppermost : — " there." 

"Anythin' for a quiet life," said Mr. Weller ; and 
on they went again. 



198 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" Stop !" said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a 
few yards further. 

" What now ?" said Wardle. 

" That gun of Tupman's is not safe ; I know it 
isn't," said Mr. Pickwick. 

" Eh ? What ! not safe ?" said Mr. Tupman, in a 
tone of great alarm. 

" Not as you are carrying it," said Mr. Pickwick, 
" I am very sorry to make any further objection, but 
I cannot consent to go on, unless you carry it as 
Winkle does his." 

" I think you had better sir," said the long game- 
keeper, " or you're quite as likely to lodge the charge 
in yourself as in anything else." 

Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed 
his piece in the position required, and the party 
moved on again ; the two amateurs marching with 
reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royal 
funeral. 

The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the 
party advancing stealthily a single pace, stopped too. 

"What's the matter with the dogs' legs?'' whis- 
pered Mr. Winkle. " How queer they're standing." 

" Hush, can't you ?" replied Wardle, softly. 
" Don't you see they're making a point?" 

" Making a point !" said Mr. Winkle, staring about 
him, as if he expected to discover some particular 
beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. IQQ 

were calling special attention to. " Making a point ! 
What are they pointing at?" 

" Keep your eyes open," said Wardle, not heeding 
the question in the excitement of the moment. ''Now 
then." 

There was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. 
Winkle start back as if he had been shot himself. 
Bang, bang, went a couple of guns;— the smoke swept 
quickly away over the field, and curled into the air. 

"Where are they ?" said Mr. Winkle, in a state of 
the highest excitement, turning round and round in 
all directions. " Where are they ? Tell me when to 
fire. Where are they — where are they ?' ' 

" Where are they ?" said Wardle, taking up a brace 
of birds which the dogs had deposited at his feet. 
" Why here they are." 

" No, no ; I mean the others," said the bewildered 
Winkle. 

" Far enough off, by this time," replied Wardle, 
coolly reloading his gun. 

" We shall very likely be up with another covey in 
five minutes," said the long gamekeeper. " If the 
gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he'll just get 
the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise." 

" Ha ! ha ! ha !" roared Mr. Weller. 

" Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his 
follower's confusion and embarrassment. 

"Sir." 



200 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" Don't laugh." 

" Certainly not, sir." So, by the way of indemnifi- 
cation, Mr. Weller contorted his features from be- 
hind the wheelbarrow, for the exclusive amusement 
of the boy with the leggins, who thereupon burst 
into a boisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed 
by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for 
turning round, to hide his own merriment. 

" Bravo, old fellow !" said Wardle to Mr. Tnpman; 
*' you fired that time, at all events." 

" Oh, yes,'' replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious 
pride. " I let it off." 

" Well done. You'll hit something next time, if 
you look sharp. Very easy, ain't it ?" 

"Yes, it's very easy," said Mr. Tupman. " How 
it hurts one's shoulder, though. It nearly knocked 
me backwards. I had no idea these small fire-arms 
kicked so.'' 

"Ah," said the old gentleman, smiling; "you'll 
get used to it in time. Now then — all ready — all 
right with the barrow there ?" 

" All right, sir," replied Mr. Weller. 

"Come along, then." 

" Hold hard, sir," said Sam, raising the barrow. 

"Aye, aye," replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they 
went, as briskly as need be. 

" Keep that barrow back now," cried Wardle when 
it had been hoisted over a stile into another field. 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 20I 

and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it once 
more. 

''All right, sir," replied Mr. Weller, pausing. 

" Now, Winkle," said the old gentleman, *' follow 
me softly, and don't be too late this time." 

"Never fear," said Mr. Winkle. "Are they 
pointing ?" 

"No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly.'' On 
they crept, and very quietly they would have ad- 
vanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some 
very intricate evolutions with his gun, had not ac- 
cidentally fired, at the most critical moment, over the 
boy's head, exactly in the very spot where the tall 
man's brain would have been, had he been there 
instead, 

" Why, what on earth did you do that for ?" said old 
Wardle, as the birds flew unharmed away. 

" I never saw such a gun in my life," replied poor 
Mr. Winkle, looking at the lock, as if that would do 
any good. " It goes off of its own accord. It will 
do it." 

"Will do it !" echoed Wardle, with something of 
irritation in his manner. " I wish it would kill some- 
thing of its own accord." 

" It'll do that before long, sir,'' observed the tall 
man. in a low, prophetic voice. 

" What do you mean by that observation, sir ?" 
inquired Mr. Winkle, angrily. 



202 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" Never mind, sir, never mind," replied the long 
gamekeeper; "I've no family myself, sir ; and this 
here boy's mother will get something handsome from 
Sir Geoffrey, if he's killed on his land. Load again, 
sir, load again." 

" Take away his gun," cried Mr. Pickwick from 
the barrow, horror-stricken at the long man's dark 
insinuations. " Take away his gun, do you hear, 
somebody ?" 

Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the com- 
mand ; and Mr. Winkle, after darting a rebellious 
glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, and pro- 
ceeded onwards with the rest. 

We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, 
to state, that Mr. Tupman's mode of proceeding 
evinced fai more of prudence and deliberation, than 
that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means 
detracts from the great authority of the latter gentle- 
man, on all matters connected with the field, be- 
cause, as Mr. Pickwick beautifully observes, it has 
somehow or other happened, from time immemor- 
ial, that many of the best and ablest philosophers, 
who have been perfect lights of science in matters 
of theory, have been wholly unable to reduce them 
to practice. 

Mr. Tupman's process, like many of our most sub- 
lime discoveries, was extremely simple. With the 
quickness and penetration of a man of genius, he 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 203 

had at once observed that the two great points to be 
attained were — first, to discharge his piece without 
injury to himself, and, secondly, to do so, without 
danger to the by-standers ; — obviously, the best 
thing to do, after surmounting the difficulty of firing 
at all, was to shut his eyes firmly, and fire into the 
air. 

On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. 
Tupman, on opening his eyes, beheld a plump par- 
tridge in the act of falling wounded to the ground. 
He was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on 
hisinvariablesuccess, when that gentleman advanced 
toward him, and grasped him warmly by the hand. 

" Tupman," said the old gentleman, " you singled 
out t!aat particular bird ?" 

" No," said Mr. Tupman— "no." 

" You did," said Wardle. " I saw you do it — I 
observed you pick him out — I noticed you, as you 
raised your piece to take aim ; and I will say this, 
that the best shot in existence could not have done 
it more beautifully. You are an older hand at this, 
than I thought you, Tupman, you have been out 
before." 

It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a 
smile of half-denial, that he never had. The very 
smile was taken as evidence to the contrary ; and 
from that time forth, his reputation was established. 
It is not the only reputation that has been acquired 



204 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

as easily, nor are such fortunate circumstances con- 
fined to partridge-shooting. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and 
smoked away, without producing any material results 
worthy of being noted down.; sometimes expending 
his charge in mid-air, and at others sending it skim- 
ming along so near the surface of the ground as to 
place the lives of the two dogs on a rather uncertain 
and precarious tenure. As a display of fancy shoot- 
ing, it was extremely varied and curious ; as an ex- 
hibition of firing with any precise object, it was, upon 
the whole, perhaps a failure. It is an established 
axiom, that "every bullet has its billet." If it apply 
in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were 
unfortunate foundlings, deprived of their natural 
rights, cast loose upon the world, and billeted no- 
where. 

" Well," said Wardle, walking up to the side of 
the barrow, and wiping the streams of perspiration 
from his jolly red face; " smoking day, isn't it?" 

" It is, indeed," replied Mr. Pickwick. " The sun 
is tremendously hot, even to me. I don't know how 
you must feel it." 

" Why," said the old gentleman, " pretty hot. It's 
past twelve, though. You see that green hill 
there?" 

" Certainly." 

" That's the place where we are to lunch ; and. by 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 20$ 

Jove, there's the boy with the basket, punctual as 
clock-work !" 

"So he is," said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. 
" Good boy, that. I'll give him a shilling presently. 
Now, then, Sam, wheel away." 

" Hold on, sir," said Mr. Weller, invigorated with 
the prospect of refreshments. 

" Out of the way, young leathers. If you walley 
my precious life, don't upset me, as the gen'l'm'n 
said to the driver when they was a carryin' him to 
Tyburn." And quickening his pace to a sharp run 
Mr. Weller wheeled his master nimbly to the green 
hill, shot him dexterously out by the very side of the 
basket, and proceeded to unpack it with the utmost 
dispatch. 



" Now, about Manor Farm," said Mr. Pickwick. 
" How shall we go ? " 

" We had better consult the waiter, perhaps," said 
Mr. Tupman, and the waiter was summoned accord- 
ingly. 

" Dingley Dell, gentlemen — fifteen miles, gentle- 
men — cross road — post-chaise, sir ? " 

" Post-chaise won't hold more than two," said Mr. 
Pickwick. 

"True, sir — ^beg your pardon, sir. — Very nice four- 
wheeled chaise, sir — seat for two behind — one in front 



206 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

for the gentleman that drives — oh ! beg your pardon 
sir — that'll only hold three." 

" What's to be done ? " said Mr. Snodgrass. 

" Perhaps one of the gentlemen would hke to ride, 

"sir.?" suggested the waiter, looking toward Mr. 

Winkle ; " very good saddle horses, sir — any of Mr. 

Wardle's men coming to Rochester, bring 'em back, 

sir." 

" The very thing," said Mr. Pickwick. " Winkle, 
will you go on horseback ? " 

Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings 
in the very lowest recesses of his own heart, relative 
to his equestrian skill ; but, as he would not have 
them even suspected on any account, he at once re- 
plied with great hardihood, '* Certainly. I should 
enjoy it, of all things." 

Mr. Winkle had rushed upon his fate ; there was 
no resource. " Let them be at the door by eleven," 
said Mr. Pickwick. 

" Very well, sir," replied the waiter. 

The waiter retired ; the breakfast concluded ; and 
the travelers ascended to their respective bed-rooms, 
to prepare a change of clothing, to take with them 
on their approaching expedition. 

Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminary arrange- 
ments, and was looking over the coffee-room blinds 
at the passengers in the street, when the waiter 
entered, and announced that the chaise was ready — 




THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 20/ 

an announcement which the vehicle itself confirmed, 
by forthwith appearing before the coffee-room blinds 
aforesaid. 

It was a curious little green box on four wheels, 
with a low place like a wine bin for two behind, and 
an deviated perch for one in front, drawn by an 
immense brown horse, displaying great symmetry of 
bone. An hostler stood near, holding by the bridle 
another immense horse — apparently a near relative 
of the animal in the chaise — ready saddled for Mr. 
Winkle. 

" Bless my soul ! '' said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood 
upon the pavement while the coats were being put 
in. " Bless my soul ! who's to drive ? I never 
thought of that." 

" Oh ! you, of course," said Mr. Tupman. 

" Of course," said Mr. Snodgrass. 

" I ! " exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

"Not the slightest fear, sir," interposed the hostler. 
" Warrant him quiet, sir ; a hinfant in arms might 
drive him." 

" He don't shy, does he ? " inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

" Shy, sir ? — He wouldn't shy if he was to meet 
a vaggin-load of monkeys with their tails burnt 
off." 

The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. 
Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass got into the bin ; Mr. 
Pickwick ascended to his perch, and deposited his 



208 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

feet on a floor-clothed shelf, erected beneath it for 
that purpose. 

" Now, shiny Villiam," said the hostler to the dep- 
uty hostler, "give the gen'lm'n the ribbins." " Shiny 
Villiam " — so called, probably, from his sleek hair 
and oily countenance — placed the reins in Mr. Pick- 
wick's left hand ; and the upper hostler thrust a whip 
into his right. 

"Wo — o!" cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quad- 
ruped evinced a decided inclination to back into the 
coffee-room window. 

"Wo — o !" echoed Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snod- 
grass, from the bin. 

" Only his playfulness, gen'lm'n," said the head 
hostler encouragingly ; " jist kitch hold on him, Vil- 
liam." The deputy restrained the animal's impetu- 
osity, and the principal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in 
mounting 

" T'other side, sir, if you please." 

" Blowed if the gen'lm'n worn't a gettin' up on the 
wrong side," whispered a grinning post-boy, to the 
inexpressibly gratified waiter. 

Mr. Winkle, thus instructed, cHmbed into his sad- 
dle, with about as much difficulty as he would have 
experienced in getting up the side of a first-rate man- 
of-war. 

"All right ? " inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an in- 
ward presentiment that it was all wrong. 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 2O9 

"All right," replied Mr. Winkle faintly. 

"Let 'em go," cried the hostler. " Hold him in, 
sir," and away went the chaise, and the saddle-horse, 
with Mr. Pickwick on the box of the one, and Mr. 
Winkle on the back of the other, to the delight and 
gratification of the whole inn yard. 

" What makes him go sideways?" said Mr. Snod- 
grass in the bin, to Mr. Winkle in the saddle. 

" I can't imagine," replied Mr. Winkle. His horse 
was drifting up the street in the most mysterious 
manner — side first, with his head toward one side of 
the way, and his tail toward the other. 

Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe either this 
or any other particular, the whole of his faculties 
being concentrated in the management of the animal 
attached to the chaise, who displayed various pecu- 
liarities, highly interesting to a by-stander, but by no 
means equally amusing to any one seated behind 
him. Besides constantly jerking his head up in a 
very unpleasant and uncomfortable manner, and tug- 
ging at the reins to an extent which rendered it a 
matter of great difficulty for Mr. Pickwick to hold 
them, he had a singular propensity for darting sud- 
denly every now and then to the side of the road, 
then stopping short, and then rushing forward for 
some minutes, at a speed which it was wholly impos- 
sible to control. 

" What r^?;/ he mean by this?" said Mr. Snod- 
14 



210 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

grass, when the horse had executed this manoeuvre 
for the twentieth time. 

" I don't know," replied Mr. Tupman ; '* It looks 
very hke shying, don't it?'* Mr. Snodgrass was 
about to reply, when he was interrupted by a shout 
from Mr. Pickwick. 

" Wo-o ! " said that gentleman ; " I have dropped 
my whip." 

"Winkle," said Mr. Snodgrass, as the equestrian 
came trotting up on the tall horse, with his hat over 
his ears, and shaking all over, as if he would shake 
to pieces, with the violence of the exercise, " pick up 
the whip, there's a good fellow." Mr. Winkle pulled 
at the bridle of the tall horse till he was black in the 
face ; and having at length succeeded in stopping 
him, dismounted, handed the whip to Mr. Pickwick, 
and grasping the reins, prepared to re mount. 

Now whether the tall horse, in the natural playful- 
ness of his disposition, was desirous of having a little 
innocent recreation with Mr. Winkle, or whether it 
occurred to him that he could perform the journey as 
much to his own satisfaction without a rider as with 
one, are points upon which, of course, we can arrive 
at no definite and distinct conclusion. By whatever 
motives the animal was actuated, certain it is that 
Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the reins, than 
he slipped them over his head, and darted back- 
wards to their full length. 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 211 

" Poor fellow," said Mr, Winkle, soothingly, — 
" poor fellow — good old horse." The " poor fellow" 
was proof against flattery ; the more Mr. Winkle 
tried to get nearer him, the more he sidled away ; 
and, notwithstanding all kinds of coaxing and 
wheedling, there were Mr. Winkle and the horse 
going round and round each other for ten minutes, 
at the end of which time each was at precisely the 
same distance from the other as when they first com- 
menced — an unsatisfactory sort of thing under any 
circumstances, but particularly so in a lonely road, 
where no assistance can be procured. 

" What am I to do ? '' shouted Mr. Winkle, after 
the dodging had been prolonged for a considerable 
time. *' What am I to do ? I can't get on him." 

'' You had better lead him till we come to a turn- 
pike," replied Mr. Pickwick from the chaise. 

•* But he won't come ! " roared Mr. Winkle. " Do 
come and hold him." 

Mr. Pickwick was the very personation of kind- 
ness and humanity ; he threw the reins on the horse's 
back, and having descended from his seat, carefully 
drew the chaise into the hedge, lest anything should 
come along the road, and stepped back to the assist- 
ance of his distressed companion, leaving Mr. Tup- 
man and Mr. Snodgrass in the vehicle. 

The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advanc- 
ing toward him with the chaise whip in his hand, 



212 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

than he exchanged the rotatory motion in which he 
had previously indulged, for a retrograde movement 
of so very determined a character, that it at once 
drew Mr. Winkle, who was still at the end of the 
bridle, at a rather quicker rate than fast walking, in 
the direction from which they had just come. Mr. 
Pickwick ran to his assistance ; but the faster Mr. 
Pickwick ran forward, the faster the horse ran back- 
ward. There was a great scraping of feet, and kick- 
ing up of the dust ; and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms 
being nearly pulled out of their sockets, fairly let go 
his hold. The horse paused, stared, shook his head, 
turned round, and quietly trotted home to Rochester, 
leaving Mr. Winkle and Mr. Pickwick gazing on 
each other with countenances of blank dismay. A 
rattling noise at a little distance attracted their atten- 
tion. They looked up. 

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the agonized Mr. 
Pickwick, "there's the other horse running away! " 

It was but too true. The animal was startled by 
the noise, and the reins were on his back. The re- 
sult may be guessed. He tore off with the four- 
wheeled chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman and 
Mr. Snodgrass in the four-wheeled chaise. The heat 
was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself into 
the hedge, Mr. Snodgrass followed his example, the 
horse dashed the four-wheeled chaise against a 
wooden bridge, separated the wheels from the body, 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 213 

and the bin from the perch; and finally stood stock 
still to gaze upon the ruin he had made. 

The first care of the two unspilt friends was to ex- 
tricate their unfortunate companions from their bed 
of quickset — a process which gave them the unspeak- 
able satisfaction of discovering that they had sus- 
tained no injury, beyond sundry rents in their gar- 
ments, and various lacerations from the brambles. 
The next thing to be done was to unharness the 
horse. This complicated process having been 
effected, the party walked slowly forward, leading 
the horse among them, and abandoning the chaise 
to its fate. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 



215 



BLEAK HOUSE. 



T T is the long vacation in the regions of Chancery 
Lane. The good ships Law and Equity, those 
teak-built, copper-bottomed, iron-fastened, brazen- 
faced, and not by any means fast sailing clippers, 
are laid up in ordinary The Flying DutcJwian, 
with a crew of ghostly clients imploring all whom 
they may encounter to peruse their papers, has 
drifted, for the time being, Heaven knows where. 
The courts are all shut up ; the public offices lie in a 
hot sleep ; Westminster Hall itself is a shady solitude 
where nightingales might sing, and a tenderer class 
of suitors than is usually found there, walk. . . . 

It is the hottest long vacation known for many 
years. All the young clerks are madly in love, and, 
according to their various degrees, pine for bliss with 
the beloved object, at Margate, Ramsgate, or Graves- 
end. All the middle-aged clerks think their families 
too large. All the unowned dogs who stray into the 
Inns of Court, and pant about staircases and other 
dry places seeking water, give short howls of aggra- 

217 



2l8 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

vation. All the blind men's dogs in the streets draw 
their masters against pumps, or trip them over buckets. 
A shop with a sun-blind, and a watered pavement, 
and a bowl of gold and silver fish in the window, is 
a sanctuary. Temple Bar gets so hot, that it is, to 
the adjacent Strand and Fleet Street, what a heater 
is in an urn, and keeps them simmering all 
night 

Over all the legal neighborhood, there hangs, like 
some great veil of rust, or gigantic cobweb, the idle- 
ness and pensiveness of the long vacation. Mr. 
Snagsby, law-stationer of Cook's Court, Cursitor 
Street, is sensible of the influence ; not only in his 
mind as a sympathetic and contemplative man, but 
also in his business as a law-stationer aforesaid. He 
has more leisure for musing in Staple Inn and in the 
Rolls Yard, during the long vacation, than of other 
seasons ; and he says to the two 'prentices, what a 
thing it is in such hot weather to think that you live 
in an island, with the sea a-rolling and a-bowling 
right round you. 

Guster is busy in the little drawingroom, on this 
present afternoon in the long vacation, when Mr. and 
Mrs. Snagsby have it in contemplation to receive 
company. The expected guests are rather select 
than numerous, being Mr. and Mrs. Chadband, and 
no more. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 219 

At this period of the entertainment, Guster, who 
has never recovered her first failure, but has neglec- 
ted no possible or impossible means of bringing the 
establishment and herself into contempt — among 
which may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedly 
performing clashing military music on Mr. Chad- 
band's head with plates, and afterward crowning 
that gentleman with muffins— at this period of the 
enteriainment Guster whispers Mr. Snagsby that he 
is wanted. 

"And being wanted in the — not to put too fine a 
point upon it — in the shop," says Mr. Snagsby, ris- 
ing, " perhaps this good company will excuse me for 
half a minute." 

Mr. Snagsby descends, and finds the two 'prentices 
intently contemplating a police constable, who holds 
a ragged boy by the arm. 

" Why, bless my heart," says Mr. Snagsby, 
"what's the matter.?" 

"This boy," says the constable, "although he's 
repeatedly told to, won't move on " 

" I'm always a-moving on, sir," cries the boy wip- 
ing away his grimy tears with his arm. "I've always 
been a-moving and a-moving on, ever since I was 
born. Where can I possibly move to, sir, more nor 
I do move?" 

" He won't move on," says the constable, calmly, 
with a slight professional hitch of his neck involving 



220 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

its better settlement in his stiff stock, " although he 
has been repeatedly cautioned, and therefore I'm 
obliged to take him into custody. He's as obstinate 
a young gonoph as I know. He won't move on. ' 

" Oh, my eye ! Where can I move to?" cries the 
boy, clutching quite desperately at his hair, and beat- 
ing his bare feet upon the floor of Mr. Snagsby's pas- 
sage. 

" Don't you come none of that, or I shall make 
blessed short work of you ! " says the constable, giv- 
ing him a passionless shake. " My instructions are 
that you are to move on. I have told you so five 
hundred times." 

" But where ? " cries the boy. 

" Well ! Really, constable, you know," says Mr. 
Snagsby wistfully, and coughing behind his hand his 
cough of great perplexity and doubt : " really that 
does seem a question. Where, you know?" 

" My instructions don't go to that,'' replies the con- 
stable. " My instructions are that this boy is to move 
on." 

Do you hear, Jo ? It is nothing to you or to any 
one else, that the great lights of the parliamentary 
sky have failed for some few years, in this business, 
to set you the example of moving on. The one grand 
recipe remains for you — the profound philosophical 
prescription — the be-all and the end-all of your 
strange existence upon earth. Move on ! You are 



BLEAK HOUSE. 221 

by no means to move off, Jo, for the great lights can't 
at all agree about that. Move on ! 

Mr. Snagsby says nothing to this effect ; says noth- 
ing at all, indeed; but coughs his forlornest cough, 
expressive of no thoroughfare in any direction. By 
this time, Mr. and Mrs. Chadband, and Mrs. Snags- 
by, hearing the altercation, have appeared upon the 
stairs. Ouster having never left the end of the pas- 
sage, the whole household are assembled. 

" The simple question is, sir," says the constable, 
" whether you know this boy. He says you do." 

Mrs. Snagsby, from her elevation, instantly cries 
out, " No he don't ! " 

" My lit-tle woman ! " says Mr. Snagsby, looking 
up the stair-case. " My love, permit me ! Pray 
have a moment's patience, my dear. I do know 
something of this lad, and in what I know of him, I 
can't say that there's any harm ; perhaps on the con- 
trary, constable.'' 

" Well ! " says the constable, '' so far, it seems, he 
had grounds for what he said. When I took him 
into custody up in Holborn, he said you knew him. 
Upon that, a young man who was in the crowd said 
he was acquainted with you, and you were a respect- 
able housekeeper, and if I'd call and make the in- 
quiry he'd appear. The young man don't seem in- 
clined to keep his word, but — oh ! Here is the 
young man ! " 



222 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Enter Mr. Guppy, who nods to Mr. Snagsby, and 
touches his hat with the chivalry of clerkship to the 
ladies on the stairs. 

" I was strolling away from the office just now, 
when I found this row going on," says Mr. Guppy to 
the law-stationer ; " and as your name was men- 
tioned, I thought it was right the thing should be 
looked into." 

" It was very good-natured of you, sir," says Mr. 
Snagsby, "and I am obliged to you." And Mr 
Snagsby again relates his experience. 

" Now, I know where you live," says the consta- 
ble, then, to Jo. "You hve down in Tom-all- 
alone's. That's a nice innocent place to live in, 
ain't it?" 

" I can't go and live in no nicer place, sir," re- 
pHes Jo. " They wouldn't have nothink to say to 
me if I was to go to a nice innocent place fur to live. 
Who ud go and let a nice innocent lodging to such a 
reg'lar one as me ? " 

" You are very poor, ain't you ?'' says the consta- 
ble. 

" Yes, I am, indeed, sir, wery poor in gin'ral," re- 
plies Jo. 

" I leave you to judge now ! I shook these two 
half-crowns out of him," says the constable, produc- 
ing them to the company, " in only putting my hand 
upon him ! " 



BLEAK HOUSE. 223 

"They're wot's left, Mr. Snagsby," says Jo, " out 
of a sov'ring as was give me by a lady in a wale as 
sed she was a servant and as come to my crossin* 
one night 

"And I ain't had much of the sov'ring neither," 
says Jo, with dirty tears, " fur I had to pay five bob, 
down in Tom-all-alone's afore they'd square it fur to 
giv me change, and then a young man he thieved 
another five while I was asleep and another boy he 
thieved ninepence and the landlord he stood drains 
round with a lot more on it." 

" You don't expect anybody to believe this, about 
the lady and the sovereign, do you?'' said the 
constable, eying him aside with ineffable disdain. 

"I don't know as I do, sir," replies Jo. "I don't 
expect nothing, at all, sir, much, but that's the true 
hist'ry on it." 

" You see what he is ! " the constable observes to 
the audience. " Well, Mr. Snagsby, if I don't lock 
him up this time, will you engage for his moving on ?'' 

"No! '' cries Mrs. Snagsby from the stairs. 

" My little woman ! '' pleads her husband. " Con- 
stable, I have no doubt he'll move on. You know 
you really must do it," says Mr. Snagsby. 

" I'm every ways agreeable, sir/' says the hapless 
Jo." 

" Do it then," observes the constable. " You know 
what you have to do. Do it ! And recollect you 



224 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

won't get off so easy next time. Catch hold of your 
money. Now, the sooner you're five miles off, the 
better for all parties." 

With this farewell hint, and pointing to the setting 
sun, as a likely place to move on to, the constable 
bids his auditors good-afternoon ; and makes the 
echoes of Cook's Court perform slow music for him 
as he walks away on the shady side, carrying his 
iron-bound hat in his hand for a little ventilation. . . 

Jo moves on, through the long vacation, down 
to Blackfriars Bridge, where he finds a baking stony 
corner, wherein to settle to his repast. 

And there he sits, munching and gnawing, and 
looking up at the great Cross on the summit of St. 
Paul's Cathedral, glittering above a red and violet- 
tinted cloud of smoke. From the boy's face one 
might suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his 
eyes, the crowning confusion of the great confused 
city ; so golden, so high up, so far out of his reach. 
There he sits, the sun going down, the river running 
fast, the crowd flowing by him in two streams — ■ 
everything moving on to some purpose and to one end 
— until he is stirred up, and told to " move on" too. 



Darkness rests upon Tom-all-alone's. Dilating 
and dilating since the sun went down last night, it 
has gradually swelled until it fills every void in 



BLEAK HOUSE. 22$ 

the place. For a time there were some dungeon 
hghts burning, as the lamp of Life burns in Tom-all- 
alone's, heavily, heavily, in the nauseous air, and 
winking — as that lamp, too, winks in Tom-all-alone's 
— at many horrible things. But they are blotted out. 
The moon has dyed Tom with a dull cold stare, as 
admitUng some puny emulation of herself in his 
desert region unfit for life and blasted by volcanic 
fires ; but she has passed on and is gone. The 
blackest night-mare in the infernal stables gazes on 
Tom-all-alone's, and Tom is fast asleep 

It is a moot point whether Tom-all-alone's be 
uglier by day or by night ; but on the argument that 
the more that is seen of it the more shocking it must 
be, and that no part of it left to imagination is at all 
likely to be made so bad as the reality, day carries it. 
The day begins to break now ; and in truth it might be 
better for the national glory even that the sun should 
sometimes set upon the British dominions, than that 
it should ever rise upon so vile a wonder as Tom. 

A brown sun-burned gentleman, who appears in 
some inaptitude for sleep to be wandering abroad 
rather than counting the hours on a restless pillow, 
strolls hitherward at this quiet time. Attracted by 
curiosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up 
and down the miserable by-ways. Nor is he merely 
curious, for in his bright dark eye there is com- 
passionate interest ; and as he looks here and there, 
15 



226 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

he seems to understand such wretchedness, and to 
have studied it before. 

On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud 
which is the main street of Tom-all alone's, nothing 
is to be seen but the crazy houses, shut up and 
silent. No waking creature save himself appears, 
except in one direction, where he sees the solitary- 
figure of a woman sitting on a door-step. He walks 
that way. Approaching, he observes that she has 
journeyed a longdistance, and is foot-sore and travel- 
stained. She sits on the door-step in the manner of 
one who is waiting, with her elbow on her knee and 
her head upon her hand. Beside her is a canvas bag, 
or bundle, she has carried. She is dozing probably, 
for she gives no heed to his steps as he comes to- 
ward her. 

The broken foot-way is so narrow, that when Al- 
lan Woodcourt comes to where the woman sits, he 
has to turn into the road to pass her. Looking down 
at her face, his eye meet hers, and he stops. 

" What is the matter ? " 

" Nothing, sir." 

" Can't you make them hear ? Do you want to be 
let in?" 

" I am waiting till they get up at another house — a 
lodging-house — not here," the woman patiently re- 
turns. " I am waiting here because there will be 
sun here presently to warm me." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 22/ 

" I am afraid you are tired. I am sorry to see you 
sitting in the street." 

" Thank you sir. It don't matter." 

A habit in him in speaking to the poor, and of 
avoiding patronage or condescension, or childishness 
(which is the favorite device, many people deeming 
it quite a subtlety to talk to them like little spelling- 
books), has put him on good terms with the woman 
easily. 

" Let me look at your forehead," he says, bending 
down. " I am a doctor. Don't be afraid. I wouldn't 
hurt you for the world." 

He knows that by touching her with his skillful 
and accustomed hand, he can soothe her yet more 
readily. She makes a slight objection, saying, " It's 
nothing ; '' but he has scarcely laid his fingers on the 
wounded place when she lifts it up to the light. 

"Ay! A bad bruise, and the skin sadly broken. 
This must be very sore." 

" It does ache a little, sir," returns the woman, 
with a started tear upon her cheek. 

" Let me try to make it more comfortable. My 
handkerchief won't hurt you.'' 

"Oh, dear no, sir, Vm sure of that ! " 

He cleanses the injured place and dries it ; and 
having carefully examined it and gently pressed it 
with the palm of his hand, takes a small case from 
his pocket, dresses it, and binds it up. While he is 



228 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

thus employed, he says, after laughing at his estab- 
lishing a surgery in the street, 

" So your husband is a brickmaker ? " 

" How do you know that, sir ? " asked the woman, 
astonished, 

" Why, I supposed so, from the color of the clay 
upon your bag and on your dress. And I know 
brick-makers go about working at piece-work in dif- 
ferent places. And I am sorry to say I have known 
them cruel to their wives too.'' 

The woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would 
deny that her injury is referable to such a cause. But 
feeling the hand upon her forehead, and seeing his 
composed face, she quietly drops them again. 

" Where is he now ? '' asks the surgeon. 

" He got into trouble last night, sir ; but he'll look 
forme at the lodging-house,'' 

" He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses 
his large and heavy hand as he has misused it here. 
But you forgive him, brutal as he is, and I say no 
more of him, except that I wish he deserved it." 

By this time he has finished, and is putting up his 
case. " I suppose you have some settled home. Is 
it far from here ?" he asks, good-humoredly making 
light of what he has done, as she gets up and court- 
esies. 

" It's a good two or three-and-twenty miles from 
here, sir. At St. Albans. You know St. Albans, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 229 

sir ? I thought you gave a start like, as if you 
did?" 

" Yes, I know something of it. And now I will ask 
you a question in return. Have you money for your 
lodging: ? '' 

" Yes, sir," she says, " really and truly.'' And 
she shows it. He tells her in acknowledgment of 
her many subdued thanks, that she is very welcome, 
gives her good-day, and walks away. Tom-all-alone's 
is still asleep, and nothing is astir. 

Yes, something is ! As he retraces his way to 
the point from which he descried the woman at a 
distance sitting on the step, he sees a ragged figure 
coming very cautiously along, crouching close to the 
soiled walls — which the wretched figure might as well 
avoid — and furtively thrusting a hand before it. It is 
the figure of a youth, whose face is hollow, and 
whose eyes have an emaciated glare. He is so intent 
on getting along unseen, that even the apparition of 
a stranger in whole garrrjents does not tempt him to 
look back. He shades his face with his ragged elbow 
as he passes on the other side of the way, and goes 
shrinking and creeping on, with his anxious hand 
before him, and his shapeless clothes hanging in 
shreds. Clothes made for what purpose, or of what 
material, it would be impossible to say. They look, 
in color and substance, like a bundle of rank leaves 
of swampy growth, that rotted long ago. 



230 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him and 
note all this, with a shadowy belief that he has seen 
the boy before. He cannot recall how, or where, but 
there is some association in his mind with such a 
form. He imagines that he must have seen it in 
some hospital or refuge ; still, cannot make out why 
it comes with any special force on his remembrance. 

He is gradually emerging from Tom-all-alone's 
in the morning light, thinking about it, when he 
hears running feet behind him ; and looking round, 
sees the boy scouring toward him at great speed, fol- 
lowed by the woman. 

" Stop him, stop him ! " cries the woman, almost 
breathless. " Stop him, sir ! " 

He darts across the road into the boy's path, but 
the boy is quicker than he — makes a curve — ducks 
— dives under his hands — comes up half a dozen 
yards beyond him, and scours away again. Still the 
woman follows, crying, " Stop him, sir, pray stop 
him!" Allan, not knowing but that he has just 
rol^bed her of her money, follows in chase, and runs 
so hard, that he "runs the boy down a dozen times ; 
but each time he repeats the curve, the duck, the 
dive, and scours away again. To strike at him on 
any of these occasions, would be to fell and disable 
him ; but the pursuer cannot resolve to do that : and 
so the grimly ridiculous pursuit continues. At last 
the fugitive, hard-pressed, takes to a narrow passage, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 23 I 

and a court which has no thoroughfare. Here 
against a hoarding of decaying timber, he is brought 
to bay, and tumbles down, lying gasping at his pur- 
suer, who stands and gasps at him until the woman 
comes up. 

" Oh, you Jo ! '' cries the woman. " What ! I have 
found you at last ! " . . . . 

"What has he done?" says Allan. "Has he 
robbed you ? " 

" No, sir, no. Robbed me ? He did nothing but 
what was kind-hearted by me, and that's the wonder 
of it." 

Allan looks from Jo to the woman, and from the 
woman to Jo, waiting for one of them to unravel the 
riddle. 

" But he was along with me, sir," says the woman 
— " Oh, you Jo ! — he was along with me, sir, down at 
St. Albans, ill, and a young lady. Lord bless her for 
a good friend to me, took pity on him when I durstn't, 
and took him home " 

" Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him 
comfortable, and like a thankless monster he ran 
away in the night, and never has been seen or heard 
of since, till I set eyes on him just now. And that 
young lady that was such a pretty dear, caught his 
illness, lost her beautiful looks, and wouldn't hardly 
be knoAvn for the same young lady now, if it wasn't 
for her angel temper, and her pretty shape, and her 



232 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

sweet voice. Do you know it? You ungrateful 
wretch, do you know that tliis is all along of you and 
of her goodness to you?" demands the woman, be- 
ginning to rage at him as she recalls it, and breaking 
into passionate tears. 

The boy, in rough sort stunned by what he hears, 
falls to smearing his dirty forehead with his dirty 
palm, and to staring at the ground, and to shaking 
from head to foot until the crazy hoarding against 
which he leans, rattles. 

Allan restrains the woman, merely by a quiet ges- 
ture, but effectually. 

" You hear what she says. But get up, get up." 

Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises, and stands, 
after the manner of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways 
against the hoarding, resting one of his high shoulders 
against it, and covertly rubbing his right hand over 
his left, and his left foot over his right. 

" You hear what she says, and I know it's true. 
Ha.ve you been here ever since ? " 

" Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all alone' s till this 
blessed morning," rephes Jo, hoarsely. 

" Why have you come here now ? " 

Jo looks all round the confined court, looks at his 
questioner no higher than his knees, and finally an- 
swers : 

'* I don't know how to do nothink, and I can't get 
rethink to do. I'm wery poor and ill, and I thought 



BLEAK HOUSE. 233 

I'd comeback here when there warn't nobody about, 
and lay down and hide somewheres as as I knows 
on till arter dark, and then go and beg a trifle of Mr. 
Snagsby. He wus alius willin' fur to give me some- 
think, he wos, though Mrs, Snagsby she wos alius a 
chivying on me — like everybody every wheres." 

" Where have you come from ? " 

Jo looks all round the court again, looks at his 
questioner's knees again, and concludes by laying 
his profile against the hoarding in a sort of resigna- 
tion. 

" Did you hear me ask you where you have come 
from?" 

"Tramp, then," says Jo. 

"Now tell me," proceeds Allan, making a strong 
effort to overcome his lepugnance, going very near 
to him, and leaning over him with an expression 
of confidence, "tell me how it came about that 
you left that house, when the good young lady had 
been so unfortunate as to pity you, and take you 
home." 

Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation, and ex- 
citedly declares, addressing the woman, that he 
never known about the young lady, that he never 
heern about it, that he never went fur to hurt her, 
that he would sooner have hurt his own self, that he'd 
sooner have had his unfortnet ed chopped off than 
ever gone a-nigh her, and that she wos wery good to 



234 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

him, she vvos. Conducting himself throughout as if 
in his poor fashion he really meant it, and winding 
up with some very miserable sobs. 

Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham. 
He constrains himself to touch him. " Come, Jo. 
Tell me." 

"No. I dustn't," says Jo, relapsing into the pro- 
file state. " I dustn't, or I would." 

'* But I must know," returns the other, "all the 
same. Come Jo." 

After two or three such adjurations, Jo lifts up his 
head again, looks round the court again, and says in 
a low voice, " Well I'll tell you something. I wos 
took away. There ! " 

" Took away ? In the night? '' 

"Ah ! " Very apprehensive of being overheard, 
Jo looks about him, and even glances up some ten 
feet at the top of the hoarding, and through the 
cracks in it, lest the object of his distrust should be 
looking over, or hidden on the other side. 

" Who took you away ? " 

" I dustn't name him," says Jo. " I dustn't do it, 
sir." 

" But I want, in the young lady's name, to know. 
You may trust me. No one else shall hear." 

"Ah, but I don't know," replies Jo, shaking his 
head fearfully, " as he dont hear." 

"Why, he is not in this place.'' 



BLEAK HOUSE. 235 

*'0h, ain't he though?" says Jo, "He's in all 
manner of places, all at wanst." 

Allan looks at him in perplexity, but discovers 
some real meaning and good faith at the bottom of 
this reply. He patiently awaits an explicit answer; 
and Jo, more baffled by his patience than by anything 
else, at last desperately whispers a name in his ear. 

"Ay ! " says Allan. " Why, what had you been 
doing? " 

" Nothink, sir. Never done nothink to get myself 
into no trouble, 'cept in not moving on. But I'm a- 
moving on now. I'm a-moving on to the berryin'- 
ground — that's the move as I'm up to," 

' No, no, we will try to prevent that. But what 
did he do with you ? " 

•' Put me in a horsepittle," replied Jo, whispering, 
" till I was discharged, then giv me a little money — • 
four half bulls, wot you may call half-crowns — and 
ses * Hook it! Nobody wants you here,' he ses. 
* You hook it. You go and tramp,' he ses, * You 
move on,' he ses. ' Don't let me ever see you no- 
wheres within forty miles of London, or you'll repent 
it.' So I shall, if ever he does see me, and he'll see 
me if I'm above ground,'' concludes Jo, nervously, re= 
peating all his former precautions and investigations. 

Allan considers a little ; then remarks, turning to 
the woman, but keeping an encouraging eye on Jo, 
" He is not so ungrateful as you supposed. He had 



236 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

a reason for going away, though it was an insuffi- 
cient one." 

"Thankee, sir, thankee! " exclaims Jo. "There 
now ! See how hard you wos upon me. But only 
you tell the young lady wot the genlmn ses, and it's 
all right. For you wos very good to me too, and I 
knows it." 

" Now, Jo," says Allan, keeping his eye upon him, 
" come with me, and I will find you a better place 
than this to lie down and hide in. If I take one side 
of the way and you the other to avoid observation, 
you will not run away, I know very well, if you make 
me a promise." 

" I won't, not unless I wos to see hijn a-coming 
sir." 

" Very well. I take your word. Half the town is 
getting up by this time, and the whole town will be 
broad awake in another hour. Come along. Good- 
day again, my good woman.'' 

"Good-day again, sir, and I thank you kindly 
many times again." 

She has been sitting on her bag, deeply attentive, 
and now rises and takes it up. Jo, repeating, " Ony 
you tell the young lady as I never went fur to hurt 
her and wot the genlmn ses ! '' nods and shambles 
and shivers, and smears and blinks, and half laughs 
and half cries, a farewell to her, and takes his creep- 
ing way along after Allan Woodcourt, close to the 



BLEAK HOUSE. 237 

houses on the opposite side of the street. In this 
order, the two come up out of Tom-all-alone's into 
the broad rays of the sunlight and the purer air. 

• • • • ••••••• 

As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the 
streets, where the high church spu"es and the dis- 
tances are so near and clear in the morning light 
that the city itself seems renewed by rest, Allan re- 
volves in his mind how and where he shall bestow 
his companion. " It surely is a strange fact," he 
considers, ''that in the heart of a civilized world this 
creature in human form should be more difficult to 
dispose of than an unknown dog." But it is none 
the less a f^ict because of its strangeness, and the 
difficulty remains. 

At first, he looks behind him often, to assure him- 
self that Jo is sail really following. But, look where 
he will, he still beholds him close to the opposite 
houses, making his way with his wary hand from 
brick to brick and from door to door, and often, as 
he creeps along, glancing over at him, watchfully. 
Soon satisfied that the last thing in his thoughts is to 
give him the slip, Allan goes on ; considering with a 
less divided attention what he shall do. 

A breakfast-stall at a street corner suggests the 
first thing to be done. He stops there, looks round, 
and beckons Jo. Jo crosses, and comes halting and 
shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of his right 



238 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his 
left — kneading dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. 
What is a dainty repast to Jo is then set before him, 
and he begins to gulp the coffee, and to gnaw the 
bread-and-butter: looking anxiously about him in all 
directions as he eats and drinks, like a scared ani- 
mal. 

But he is so sick and miserable, that even hunger 
has abandoned him, " I thought I was a-most 
a-starvin, sir," says Jo, soon putting down his food ; 
''but I don't know nothing — not even that. I don't 
care for eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em." 
And Jo stands shivering, and looking at the break- 
fast wonderingly. 

Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse, 
and on his chest. " Draw breath, Jo." 

'' It draws," says Jo, "as heavy as a cart." He 
might add, "and rattles hke it; " but he only mut- 
ters, "I'm a-movin on, sir." 

Allan looks about for an apothecary''s shop. There 
is none at hand, but a tavern does as well or better. 
He obtains a little measure of wine, and gives the lad 
a portion of it very carefully. He begins to revive 
almost as soon as it passes his lips. " We may re- 
peat that dose, Jo," observes Allan, after watching 
liim with his attentive face. " So ! Now we will 
take five minutes' rest, and then go on again." 

Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of thp break- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 239 

fast-stall, with his back against an iron railing, Allan 
Woodcourt paces up and down in the early sunshine, 
casting an occasional look toward him without ap- 
pearing to watch him. It requires no discernment 
to perceive that he is warmed and refreshed. If a 
face so shaded can brighten, his face brightens some- 
what ; and, by little and little, he eats the slice of 
bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observant of 
these signs of improvement, Allan engages him in 
conversation ; and elicits to his no small wonder the 
adventure of the lady in the veil, with all its conse- 
quences. Jo slowly munches, as he slowly tells it. 
When he has finished his story and his bread, they 
go on again. 

Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a tempo- 
rary place of refuge for the boy, to his old patient, 
zealous little Miss Flite, Allan leads the way to the 
court where he and Jo first fore-gathered. But all is 
changed at the rag-and-bottle shop ; Miss Flite no 
longer lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured 
female, much obscured by dust, whose age is a prob- 
lem — is tart and spare in her replies. These suffic- 
ing, however, to inform the visitor that Miss Flite 
and her birds are domiciled with a Mrs. Blinder in 
Bell yard, he repairs to that neighboring place ; where 
Miss Flite comes running down-stairs, with tears of 
welcome and open arms. 

" My dear physician ! " cries Miss Flite. " My 



240 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

meritorious, distinguished honorable officer!" she 
uses some odd expressions, but is as cordial and full 
of heart as sanity itself can be— more so than it often 
is. Allan, very patient with her, waits until she has 
no more raptures to express, then points out Jo, 
trembling in a doorway, and tells her how he comes 
there. 

" Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the pres- 
ent ? Now you have a fund of knowledge and good 
sense, and can advise me '' 

Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets 
herself to consider ; but it is long before a bright 
thought occurs to her. Mrs. Bhnder is entirely let, 
and she herself occupies poor Gridley's room. 
" Gridley ! " exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her hands, 
after a twentieth repetition of this remark. " Gridley ! 
To be sure ! of course ! My dear physician ! Gen- 
eral George will help us out.'' 

It is hopeless to ask for any information about 
General George, and would be, though Miss Flite 
had not already run up-stairs to put on her pinched 
bonnet and her poor little shawl, and to arm herself 
with her reticule of documents. But as she informs 
her physician, in her disjointed manner, on coming 
down in full array, that General George, whom she 
often calls upon, knows her dear Fitz-Jarndyce, and 
takes a great interest in all connected with her, Allan 
is induced to think that they may be in the right way. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 2.4 1 

So he tells Jo, for his encouragement, that this walk- 
ing about will soon be over now ; and they repair to 
the General's. Fortunately it is not far. 

From the exterior of George's Shooting-Gallery, 
and the long entry, and the bare perspective beyond 
it, Allan Woodcourt augurs well. He also descries 
promise in the figure of Mr. George himself, striding 
toward them in his morning exercise with his pipe in 
his mouth, no stock on, and his muscular arms, de- 
veloped by broad-sword and dumb-bell, weightily 
asserting themselves through his light shirtsleeves 

"Your servant, sir," says Mr. George, with a mili- 
tary salute. Good-humoredly smiling all over his 
broad forehead up into his crisp hair, he then defers 
to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness, and at some 
length she performs the courtly ceremony of pre- 
sentation. He winds it up with another "Your ser- 
vant, sir ! " and another salute. 

" Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I beheve ?" says Mr. 
George. 

" I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns 
Allan ; " but I am only a sea-going doctor." 

" Indeed, sir ! I should have thought you was a 
regular blue-jacket, myself." 

Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion 

the more read'ly on that account, and particularly 

that he will not lay aside his pipe, which, in his 

pohteness, he has testified some intention of doing. 

16 



242 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" You are very good, sir," returns the trooper. " As 
1 know, by experience, that it's not disagreeable to 
Miss FUte, and since it's equally agreeable to your- 
self " and finishes the sentence by putting it be- 
tween his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell him all 
he knows about Jo; unto which the trooper listens 
with a grave face. 

"And that's the lad, sir, is it ?" he inquires, look- 
ing along the entry to where Jo stands staring up at 
the great letters on the whitewashed front, which 
have no meaning in his eyes. 

"That's he," says Allan. ''And, Mr. George, I 
am in this difficulty about him. I am unwilling to 
place him in a hospital, even if I could procure him 
immediate admission, because I foresee that he would 
not stay there many hours, if he could be so much 
as got there. The same objection apphes to a work- 
house; supposing I had the patience to be evaded 
and shirked, and handed about from post to pillar in 
trying to get him into one — which is a system that I 
don't take kindly to." 

" No man does, sir," returns Mr. George. 

" I am convinced that he would not remain in 
either place, because he is possessed by an extraor- 
dinary terror of this person who ordered him to keep 
out of the way ; in his ignorance, he believes this per- 
son to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything." 

" I ask your pardon," says Mr. George. " But you 



BLEAK HOUSE. 243 

have not mentioned that party's name. Is it a secret, 
sir?" 

" The boy makes it one. But the name is Bucket." 

"Bucket the Detective, sir?" 

"The same man." 

" The man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper, 
after blowing out a cloud of smoke and squaring his 
chest ; " and the boy is so far correct that he undoubt- 
edly is a — rum customer.'' Mr. George smokes with a 
profound meaning after this, and surveys Miss Flite 
in silence. 

" Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson 
at least to know that this Jo, who tells so strange a 
story, has reappeared ; and to have it in their power 
to speak with him, if they should desire to do so. 
Therefore I want to get him for the present moment 
into any poor lodging kept by decent people, where 
he would be admitted. Decent people and Jo, Mr. 
George," says Allan, following the direction of the 
trooper's eyes along the entry, " have not been much 
acquainted, as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do 
you happen to know any one in this neighborhood, 
who would receive him for awhile, on my paying for 
him beforehand?" 

As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a 
dirty-faced little man, standing at the trooper's elbow, 
and looking up, with an oddly twisted figure and 
countenance, into the trooper's face. After a few 



244 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

more puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant 
at the httle man, and the httle man winks up at the 
trooper. 

"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "I can assure you 
that I would willingly be knocked on the head at any 
time, if it would be at all agreeable to Miss Som- 
merson ; and consequently I esteem it a privilege to 
do that young lady any service, however small. We 
are naturally in the vagabond way here, sir, both 
myself and Phil. You see what the place is. You 
are welcome to a quiet corner of it for the boy, if the 
same would meet your views. No charge made ex- 
cept for rations. We are not in a flourishing state 
of circumstances here, sir. We are liable to be 
tumbled out neck and crop, at a moment's notice. 
However, sir, such as the place is, and so long as it 
lasts, here it is at your service." 

With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. 
George places the whole building at the visitor's dis- 
posal. 

"I take it for granted, sir," he adds, " you being 
one of the medical staff, that there is no present in- 
fection about this unfortunate subject?'' 

Allan is quite sure of it." 

" Because, sir," said Mr. George, shaking his head 
sorrowfully, " we have had enough of that." 

His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new 
acquaintance. " Still, I am bound to tell you," ob- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 245 

serves Allan, after repeating his former assurance, 
" that the boy is deplorably lovii and reduced ; and 
that he may be — I do not say that he is — too far gone 
to recover." 

"Do you consider him in present danger, sir?" 
inquires the trooper. 

" Yes, I fear so." 

" Then, sir,'' returns the trooper, in a decisive 
manner, " it appears to me — ^being naturally in the 
vagabond way myself — that the sooner he comes out 
of the street the better. You Phil ! Bring him in ! '' 

Mr. Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute 
the word of command ; and the trooper, having 
smoked his pipe, lays it by. Jo is brought in. Dirty, 
ugly, disagreeable to all the senses, in body a com- 
mon creature of the common streets, only in soul a 
heathen. Homely filth begrimes him, homely para- 
sites devour him, homely sores are in him, homely 
rags are on him ; native ignorance, the growth of 
English soil and climate, sinks his immortal nature 
lower than the beasts that perish. Stand forth, Jo, 
in uncompromising colors ! From the sole of thy 
foot to the crown of thy head, there is nothing inter- 
esting about thee. 

He shuffles slowly into Mr. George's gallery, and 
stands huddled together in a bundle, looking all 
about the floor. He seems to know that they have 
an inclination to shrink from him, partly for what he 



246 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

is, and partly for what he has caused. He, too, 
shrinks from them. • He is not of the same order of 
things, not of the same place of creation. He is of 
no order and no place ; neither of the beasts, nor of 
humanity. 

" Look here, Jo ! " says Allan. " This is Mr. 
George." 

Jo searches the iloor for some time longer, then 
looks up for a moment, and then down again. 

" He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give 
yon lodging-room here." 

Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is sup- 
posed to be a bow. After a little more consideration, 
and some backing and changing of the foot on 
which he rests, he mutters that he is " wery thank- 
ful." 

" You are quite safe here. All you have to do at 
present is to be obedient and to get strong. And 
mind you tell us the truth here, whatever you do, Jo." 

"Wishermaydie if I don't sir," says Jo, reverting 
to his favorite declaration. '* I never done nothink 
yit but wot you knows on, to get myself into no 
trouble. I never was in no other trouble at all, sir 
— 'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation." 

" I believe it. Now attend to Mr. George. I see 
he is going to speak to you." 

" My intention merely was, sir," observes Mr. 
George, amazingly broad and upright, " to point out 



BLEAK HOUSE. 2/\J 

to him where he can he down, and get a thorough 
good dose of sleep. Now, look here." As the 
trooper speaks, he conducts them to the other end of 
the gallery, and opens one of the httle cabins. 
" There you are, you see ! Here is a mattress, and 
here you may rest, on good behavior, as long as 
Mr. I ask your pardon, sir," he refers apologet- 
ically to the card Allan had given him ; " Mr. Wood- 
court pleases. Don't you be alarmed if you hear 
shots ; they'll be aimed at the target, and not you. 
Now there's another thing I would recommend, sir," 
says the trooper, turning to his visitor. " Phil, come 
here !" 

Phil bears down upon them, according to his usual 
tactics. 

*' Here is a man, sir, who was found, when a baby, 
in the gutter. Consequently, it is to be expected that 
he takes a natural interest in this poor creature. You 
do, don't you, Phil ?" 

" Certainly and surely I do, Guv'ner," is Phil's 
reply. 

** Now I was thinking sir," says Mr. George, in a 
martial sort of confidence, as if he were giving his 
opinion in a council of war at a drum-head, " that if 
this man was to take him to a bath, and was to lay 
out a few shiUings in getting him one or two coarse 
articles '' 

" Mr. George, my considerate friend, " returns Al- 



248 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Ian, taking out his purse, "it is the very favor I 
would have asked." 

Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on 
this work of improvement. Miss Flite, quite enrap- 
tured by her success, makes the best of her way to 
Court. 

Allan takes the opportunity of going out to procure 
some restorative medicines ; and obtaining them 
near at hand, soon returns, to find the trooper walk- 
ing up and down the gallery, and to fall into step and 
walk with him. 

Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is 
assisted to his mattress by the careful Phil ; to whom, 
after due administration of medicine by his own 
hands, Allan confides all needful means and instruc- 
tions. The morning is by this time getting on apace, 
he repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast ; 
and then, without seeking rest, goes away to Mr. 
Jarndyce to communicate his discovery. 

With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confiden- 
tially telling him that there are reasons for keeping 
this matter very quiet indeed ; and showing a serious 
interest in it. To Mr. Jarndyce Jo repents in sub- 
stance what he said in the morning; without any 
material variation. Only that cart of his is heavier to 
draw, and draws with a hollower sound. 

"Let me lay here quiet, and not be chivied no 



BLEAK HOUSE. 249 

more," falters Jo ; " and be so kind any person as is 
a-passin' nigh where I used fur to sweep, as jist to 
say to Mr. Snagsby that Jo, wot he known once, is a- 
moving on for'ards with his duty, and I'll be wery 
thankful. I'd be more thankful than I am a'ready, 
if it wos any ways possible for an unfortnet to be it." 

He makes so many of these references to the law- 
stationer in the course of a day or two, that Allan, 
after conferring with Mr. Jarndyce, good-naturedly 
resolves to call in Cook's Court ; the rather, as the 
cart seems to be breaking down. 

To Cook s Court, therefore, he repairs 

Jo is very glad to see his old friend ; and says, 
when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon 
kind as Mr. Snagsby should come so far out of his 
way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby, 
touched by the spectacle before him, immediately 
lays upon the table half a crown ; that magic balsam 
of his for all kinds of wounds. 

"And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" 
inquires the stationer, with his cough of sympathy. 

" I am in luck, Mr. Snagsby, I am," returns Jo, 
*' and don't want for nothink. I'm more comf bier 
nor you can't think, Mr. Snagsby ! I'm wery sorry 
that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir." 

The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, 
and asks him what it is that he is sorry for having 
done ? 



250 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

"Mr. Snagsby," says Jo, " I went and giv a illness 
to the lady, and none of 'em ever says nothink to me 
for having done it, on accounts of their being ser 
good and my having been s' unfortnet. The lady 
come herself and see me yesday, and she ses, ' Ah, 
Jo ! ' she ses. * We thought we'd lost you, Jo ! ' she 
ses. And she sits down a-smilin' so quiet, and don't 
pass a word nor yita look upon me for having done it, 
she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. 
Snagsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a-forced to 
turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come 
fur to giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's alius 
a-doin* on day and night, and wen he come a bendin' 
over me and a-speakin' up so bold, I see his tears 
a-fallin', Mr. Snagsby.'' 

The softened stationer deposits another half-crown 
on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that 
infallible remedy will relieve his feelings. 

" Wot I wos a-thinkin' on, Mr. Snagsby," proceeds 
Jo, '' was as you wos able to write very large, p'raps ? " 

"Yes, Jo, please God,'' returns the stationer. 

"Uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says Jo, 
with eagerness. 

"Yes, my poor boy." 

Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos a-thinkin' 
on then, Mr. Snagsby, was, that when I was moved 
on as fur as ever I could go and couldn't be moved 
no furder, whether you might be so good p'raps, as 



BLEAK HOUSE. 25 I 

to write out, wery large so that any one could see it 
anywheres, as that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that 
I done it and that I never went fur to do it ; and that 
though I didn't know nothink at all, and I knowd as 
Mr. Woodcot once cried over it, and wos alius grieved 
over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me 
in his mind. If the writin' could be made to say it 
wery large, he might." 

" I shall say it, Jo. Very large." 

Jo laughs again. " Thankee, Mr. Snagsby. It's 
wery kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumf- 
bler nor I wos afore." 

The meek little stationer, with a broken and un- 
finished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown — he 
has never been so close to a case requiring so many 
— and is so fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon 
this little earth, shall meet no more. No more. 

For the cart so hard to draw, is near its journey's 
end, and drags over stony ground. All round the 
clock, it labors up the broken steeps, shattered and 
worn. Not many times can the sun rise, and behold 
it still upon its weary road. 

Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at 
once acts as nurse and works as armorer at his little 
table in a corner; often looking round, and saying, 
with a nod of his green baize cap, and an encouraging 
elevation of his one eyebrow, " Hold up, my boy ! 
Hold up ! " There, too, is Mr. Jarndyce many a time, 



252 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

and Allan Woodcourt almost always ; both thinking, 
much^ how strangely Fate has entangled this rough 
outcast in the web of very different lives. There, 
too, the trooper is a frequent visitor ; filling the door- 
way with his athletic figure, and from his superfluity 
of life and strength, seeming to shed down temporary 
vigor upon Jo, who never fails to speak more robustly 
in answer to his cheerful words. 

Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Allan 
Woodcourt, newly arrived, stands by him, looking 
down upon his wasted form. After awhile, he softly 
seats himself upon the bedside with his face toward 
him — just as he sat in the law-writer's room — and 
touches his chest and heart. The cart had very 
nearly given up, but labors on a little more, 

The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. 
Phil has stopped in a low, clinking noise, with his 
little hammer in his hand. Woodcourt looks round 
with that grave professional interest and attention on 
his face, and, glancing significantly at the trooper, 
signs to Phil to carry his table out. When the little 
hammer is next used, there will be a speck of rust 
upon it. 

" Well, Jo ! What is the matter ? Don't be fright- 
ened." 

" I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is look- 
ing, " I thought I wos in Tom-all-alone's agin. Ain't 
there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot.''" 



BLEAK HOUSE. 253 

"Nobody." 

"And I ain't took back to Tom-all-alone's. Am 
I. sir?" 

"No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery 
thankful." 

After watching closely a little while, Allan puts his 
mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, 
distinct voice : 

" Jo ! Did you ever know a prayer ? " 

" Never knowd nothink, sir." 

"Not so much as one short prayer?" 

" No, sir. Nothink at all, Mr. Chadbands he wos 
a-prayin' wunst at Mr. Snagsby's and I heerd him, 
but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin' to hisself, and 
not to me. He prayed a lot, but / couldn't make 
out nothink on it. Different times, there was other 
genlmen come down Tom-all-alone's a-prayin', but 
they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, 
and all mostly sounded to be a-talking' to theirselves, 
or a passin' blame on the t'others, and not a-talkin' 
to us. We never knowd nothink. / never knowd 
what it wos all about." 

It takes him a long time to say this : and few but 
an experienced and attentive listener could hear 
and, hearing, understand him. After a short relapse 
into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong 
effort to get out of bed. 

"Stay, Jo! What now?" 



254 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" It's time for me to go to that there berryin'- 
ground, sir," he returns with a wild look. 

" Lie down, and tell me. What berrying-ground, 
Jo?" 

"Where they laid him a=; was sverry good to me, 
werry good to me, indeed, he wos. It's time fur me 
to go down to that there berryin' -ground, sir, and ask 
to be put along with him. I wants to go there and 
be berried. He used fur to say to me, ' I am as poor 
as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I 
am as poor as him now, and have come there to be 
laid along with him." 

" By and by, Jo, By and by." 

"Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go 
myself. But will you promise to have me took there, 
sir, and laid along with him ? " 

" I will, indeed." 

"Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir. They'll have to 
get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, 
for it's alius locked. And there's a step there, as I 
used fur to clean with my broom. It's turned wery 
dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin' ?'' 

" It is coming fast, Jo." 

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the 
rugged road is very near its end. 

" Jo, my poor fellow." 

" I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I am a-gropin' — 
a-gropin' — let me catch hold of your hand." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 255 

" Joe, can you say what I say ? " 

" I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's 
good." 

" Our Fatpier." 

" Our Father ! — yes, that's wery good, sir." 

" Which art in Heaven." 

" Art in Heaven — is the light a-comin, sir ? " 

" It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name ! '* 

" Hallowed be— thy " 

The light has come upon the dark benighted way. 
Dead ! 

Dead; your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentle- 
men. Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong Rever- 
ends of every order. Dead, men and women, born 
with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying 
thus around us every day. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 



257 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 



T GOT down to Yarmouth in the evening, and went 
to the inn. I knew that Peggotty's spare room 
— my room — was hkely to have occupation enough 
in a httle while if the great Visitor, before whose 
presence all the living must give place, were not 
already in the house ; so I betook myself to the inn, 
and dined there, and engaged my bed. 

It was ten when I went out, I determined to go to 
the house at once, and directed my steps thither, 
with a solemn feeling, which made Mr. Barkis quite 
a new and different creature. 

My low tap on the door was answered by Mr. Peg- 
gotty. He was not so much surprised to see me as I 
had expected. I remarked this in Peggotty, too, 
when she came down ; and I have seen it since ; and 
I think, in the expectation of that dread surprise, all 
other changes and surprises dwindle into nothing. 

I shook hands with Mr. Peggotty, and passed into 
the kitchen, while he softly closed the door. Little 
Em'ly was sitting by the fire, with her hands before 
her face. Ham was standing near her. 

259 



26o MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

We spoke in whispers ; listening, between whiles, 
for any sound in the room above. I had not thought 
of it on the occasion of my last visit, but how strange 
it was to me now, to miss Mr. Barkis out of the 
kitchen ! 

"This is very kind of you, Mas'r Davy," said Mr. 
Peggotty. 

" It's oncommon kind," said Ham. 

" Em'ly, my dear," cried Mr. Peggotty. "See 
here ! Here's Mas'r Davy come. Wiiat, cheer up, 
pretty ! Not a wured to Mas'r Davy ?'' 

There was a trembling upon her, that I can see 
now. The coldness of her hand when I touched it, 
I can feel yet. Its only sign of animation was to 
shrink from mine ; and then she glided from the 
chair, and, creeping to the other side of her uncle, 
bowed herself silently and trembling still, upon his 
breast. 

"It's such a loving art," said Mr. Peggotty, smooth- 
ing her rich hair with his great hard hand, " that 
it can't bear the sorrer of this. It's nat'ral in 
young folk, Mas'r Davy, when they're new to these 
here trials, and timid, like my little bird — it's 
nat'ral." 

She clung closer to him, but neither lifted up her 
face, nor spoke a word. 

" It's getting late, my dear,'' said Mr. Peggotty, 
" and here's Ham come fur to take you home. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 26l 

Theer ! Go along with t'other loving art ! What, 
Em'ly ? Eh, my pretty ? '' 

The sound of her voice had not reached me, but 
he bent his head as if he listened to her and said : 

" Let you stay with your uncle ? Why, you don't 
mean to ask me that ! Stay with your uncle, Mop- 
pet ? When your husband that'll be so soon, is here 
fur to take you home ? Now a person wouldn't 
think it, fur to see this little thing alongside a rough- 
weather chap like me," said Mr. Peggotty, looking 
round at both of us, with infinite pride; " but the sea 
ain't more salt in it than she has fondness in her for 
her uncle — a foolish little Em'ly ! " 

" Em'ly's in the right in that, Mas'r Davy ! " said 
Ham. " Lookee here ! As Em'ly wishes it, and as 
she's hurried and frightened, like, besides, I'll leave 
her till morning. Let me stay too ! '' 

" No, no," said Mr. Peggotty. " You doen't ought 
- — a married man like you, or what's as good — to take 
and hull away a day's work. And you doen't ought 
to watch and work both. That won't do. You go 
home and turn in. You ain't afeerd of Em'ly, not 
being took good care on, / know." 

Ham yielded to this persuasion, and took his hat 
to go. Even when he kissed her — and I never saw 
him approach her but I felt that nature had given 
him the soul of a gentleman — she seemed to cling 
closer to her uncle, even to the avoidance of her 



262 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

chosen husband. I shut the door after him, that it 
might cause no disturbance of the quiet that pre- 
vailed ; and when I turned back I found Mr. Peg- 
gotty still talking to her. 

*' Now, I'm agoing up-stairs to tell your aunt as 
Mas'r Davy's here, and that'll cheer her up a bit," 
he said. " Sit ye down by the fire the while, my 
dear, and warm these mortal cold hands. You doen't 
need to be so fearsome, and take on so much. What ? 
You'll go along with me? Well! come along with 
me — come! If her uncle was turned out of a house 
and home, and forced to lay down in a dyke, Mas'r 
Davy," said Mr. Peggotty, with no less pride than 
before, ''it's my belief she'd go along with him, now ! 
But there'll be some one else soon — some one else 
soon, Em'ly ! " 

Afterward, when I went up-stairs, as I passed the 
door of my little chamber, which was dark, I had an 
indistinct impression of her being within it, cast down 
upon the floor. But, whether it was really she, or 
whether it was a confusion of the shadows in the 
room, I don't know now. 

I had leisure to think, before the kitchen fire, of 
pretty little Em'ly's dread of death — which, added to 
what Mr. Omer had told me, I took to be the cause 
of her being so unlike herself — and I had leisure, be- 
fore Peggotty came down, even to think more len- 
iently of the weakness of it : as I sat counting the 



DAVID COPPERFIELD, 263 

ticking of tlie clock, and deepening my sense of the 
solemn hush around me, Peggotty took me in her 
arms, and blessed and thanked me over and over 
again for being such a comfort to her (that was what 
she said) in her distress. She then entreated me to 
come up-stairs, sobbing that Mr. Barkis had always 
liked me and admired me ; that he had often talked 
of me, before he fell into a stupor ; and that she be- 
lieved, in case of his coming to himself again, he 
would brighten up at sight of me, if he could bright- 
en up at any earthly thing. 

The probability of his ever doing so appeared to 
me, when I saw him, to be very small. He was ly- 
ing with his head and shoulders out of bed, in an un- 
comfortable attitude, half resting on the box which 
had cost him so much pain and trouble. I learned 
that, when he was past creeping out of bed to open 
it, and past assuring himself of its safety by means 
of the divining rod I had seen him use, he had re- 
quired to have it placed on the chair at the bed-side, 
where he had ever since embraced it, night and day. 
His arm lay on it now. Time and the world were 
slipping from beneath him, but the box was there; 
and the last words he had uttered were (in an ex- 
planatory tone) "Old clothes !'* 

"Barkis, my dear!" said Peggotty, almost cheer- 
fully, bending over him, while her brother and I 
Stood at the bed's foot. " Here's my dear boy — my 



264 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

dear boy, Master Davy, who brought us together, 
Barkis! That you sent messages by, you know! 
Won't you speak to Master Davy ?" 

He was as mute and senseless as the box from 
which his form derived the only expression it 
had. 

" He's a going out with the tide," said Mr. Peg- 
gotty to me, behind his hand. 

My eyes were dim and so were Mr. Peggotty's ; but 
I repeated in a whisper, " With the tide ? " 

" People can't die, along the coast," said Mr. Peg- 
gotty, " except when the tide's pretty nigh out. They 
can't be born, unless it's pretty nigh in — not prop- 
erly born till flood. He's agoing out with the tide. 
It's ebb at half-arter three, slack water half-an-hour. 
If he Hves till it turns, he'll hold his own till past 
the flood, and go out with the next tide." 

We remained there, watching him, a long time — 
hours. What mysterious influence my presence had 
upon him in that state of his senses, I shall not pre- 
tend to say ; but when he at last began to wander 
feebly, it is certain he was muttering about driving 
me to school. 

" He's coming to himself," said Peggotty. 

Mr. Peggotty touched me, and whispered with 
much awe and reverence, " They are both a going 
out fast." 

" Barkis, my dear! " said Peggotty. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 265 

*'C. p. Barkis," he cried faintly. "No better 
woman anywhere." 

"Look! Here's Master Davy !" said Peggotty. 
For he now opened his eyes. 

I was on the point of asking him if he knew me, 
when he tried to stretch out his arm, and said to me, 
distinctly, with a pleasant smile : " Barkis is willin' !" 

And, it being low water, he went out with the 
tide. 

It was not difficult for me, on Peggotty's solicitation, 
to resolve to stay where I was, until after the remains 
of the poor carrier should have made their last jour- 
ney to Blunderstone. She had long ago bought, out 
of her own savings, a little piece of ground in our 
old churchyard, near the grave " of her sweet girl," 
as she always called my mother : and there they 
were to rest. 

In keeping Peggotty company, and doing all I 
could for her (little enough at the utmost), I was as 
grateful, I rejoice to think, as even now I could wish 
myself to have been. But I am afraid I had a su- 
preme satisfaction, of a personal and professional 
nature, in taking charge of Mr. Barkis's will, and ex- 
pounding its contents. 

I may claim the merit of having originated the 
suggestion that the will should be looked for in the 
box. After some search, it was found in the* box, at 



266 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 



1 



the bottom of a horse's nose-bag ; wherein (besides 
hay) there was discovered an old gold watch, with 
chain and seals, which Mr. Barkis had worn on his 
wedding day, and which had never been seen before 
or since ; a silver tobacco stopper, in the form of a 
leg; an imitation lemon, full of minute cups and sau- 
cers, which I have some idea Mr. Barkis must have 
purchased to present to me when I was a child, and 
afterward found himself unable to part with ; eighty- 
seven guineas and a half, in guineas and half guin- 
eas ; two hundred and ten pounds, in perfectly clean 
bank notes ; certain receipts for Bank of England 
stock ; an old horse-shoe, a bad shilling, a piece of 
camphor, and an oyster shell. From the circum- 
stance of the latter article having been much pol- 
ished, and displaying prismatic colors on the inside, 
I conclude that Mr. Barkis had some general ideas 
about pearls, which never resolved themselves into 
anything definite. 

For years and years Mr. Barkis had carried this 
box, on all his journeys, every day. That it might 
the better escape notice, he had invented a fiction 
that it belonged to " Mr. Blackboy," and was " to be 
left with Barkis till called for ; " a fable he had elab- 
orately written on the lid, in characters now scarcely 
legible. 

He had hoarded, all these years, I found, to good 
purpose. His property in money amounted to nearly 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 26/ 

three thousand pounds. Of this he bequeathed the 
interest of one thousand to Mr. Peggotty for his hfe ; 
on his decease, the principle to be equally divided 
between Peggotty, little Em'ly, and me, or the survi- 
vor or survivors of us, share and share alike. All 
the rest he died possessed of he bequeathed to Peg- 
gotty, w^hom he left residuary legatee, and sole exec- 
utrix of that, his last will and testament. 

I felt myself quite a proctor when I read this doc- 
ument aloud vi'itli all possible ceremony, and set 
forth its provisions, any number of times, to those 
whom they concerned. I began to think there was 
more in the Commons than I had supposed. I ex- 
amined the will with the deepest attention, pro- 
nounced it perfectly formal in all respects, made a 
pencil mark or so in the margin, and thought it 
rather extraordinary that I knew so much. 

In this abstruse pursuit; in making an account for 
Peggotty of all the property into which she had 
come ; in arranging all the affairs in orderly manner, 
and in being her referee and adviser on every point, 
to our joint delight ; I passed the week before the 
funeral. I did not see little Em'ly in that interval 
but they told me she was to be quietly married in 
a fortnight. 

I did not attend the funeral in character, if I may 
venture to say so. I mean I was not dressed up in a 
black cloak and a streamer, to frighten the birds; but 



268 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

I walked over to Blunderstone early in the morning, 
and was in the churchyard when it came, attended 
only by Peggotty and her brother. The mad gentleman 
looked on, out of my little window ; Mr. Chillip's 
baby wagged its heavy head and rolled its goggle 
eyes at the clergyman, over its nurse's shoulder; 
Mr. Omer breathed short in the background ; no one 
else was there, and it was very quiet. We walked 
about the churchyard for an hour after all was over, 
and pulled some young leaves from the tree above 
my mother's grave. 

A dread falls on me here. A cloud is lowering on 
the distant town, toward which I retraced my solitary 
steps. I fear to approach it. I cannot bear to think 
of what did come upon that memorable night ; of 
what must come again, if I go on. 

It is no worse because I write of it. It would be 
no better if I stopped my most unwilling hand. It is 
done. Nothing can undo it ; nothing can make it 
otherwise than as it was. 

My old nurse was to go to London with me next 
day, on the business of the will. Little Em'ly was 
passing that day at Mr. Omer's. We were all to 
meet in the old boathouse that night. Ham would 
bring Em'ly at the usual hour. I would walk back 
at my leisure. The brother and sister would return 
as they had come, and be expecting us, when the 
day closed in, at the tireside. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 269 

I parted from them at the wicket-gate, where vis- 
ionary Straps had rested with Roderick Random's 
knapsack in the days of yore, and instead of going 
straight back, walked a httle distance on the road to 
Lowestoft. Then I turned, and walked back toward 
Yarmouth. I stayed to dine at a decent alehouse, some 
mile or two from the Ferry I have mentioned be- 
fore ; and thus the day wore away, and it was 
evening when I reached it. Rain was falling 
heavily by that time, and it was a wild night; but 
there was a moon behind the clouds, and it was not 
dark. 

I was soon within sight of Mr. Peggotty's house, and 
of the light within it shining through the window. A 
little floundering across the sand, which was heavy, 
brought me to the door, and I went in. 

It looked very comfortable, indeed. Mr. Peg- 
gotty had smoked his evening pipe, and there were 
preparations for some supper by-and by. The fire 
was bright, the ashes were thrown up, the locker 
was ready for little Em'ly in her old place. In her 
own old place, sat Peggotty, once more, looking (but 
for her dress) as if she had never left it. She had 
fallen back, already, on the society of the work-box 
with St. Paul's upon the lid, the yard-measure in the 
cottage, and the bit of wax-candle ; and there they 
all were, just as if they had never been disturbed. 
Mrs. Gummidge appeared to be fretting a little, in 



270 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

her old corner ; and, consequently, looked quite nat- 
ural, too. 

"You're first of the lot, MasV Davy?'' said Mr. 
Peggotty, with a happy face. " Don't keep in that 
coat, sir, if it's wet." 

" Thank you, Mr. Peggotty," said I, giving him my 
coat to hang up. " It's quite dry.'' 

" So, 'tis," said Mr. Peggotty, feeling my shoul- 
ders. "As a chip. Sit ye down, sir. It ain't o' no 
use saying welcome to you, but you're welcome, kind 
and hearty." 

"Thank you, Mr. Peggotty, I am sure of that. 
Well, Peggotty !"' said I, giving her a kiss, " And 
how are you, old woman ?" 

"Ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Peggotty, sitting down 
beside us, and rubbing his hands in his sense of re- 
lief from recent trouble, and in the genuine hearti- 
ness of his nature; "there's not a woman in the 
wureld, sir — as I tell her — that need to feel more 
easy in her mind than her ! She done her dooty by 
the departed, and the departed know'd it, and the 
departed done what was right by her, as she done what 
was right by the departed— and-and~and it's all right." 

Mrs. Gummidge groaned. 

" Cheer up, my pretty mawther !" said Mr. Peg- 
gotty. (But he shook his head aside at us, evidently 
sensible of the tendency of the late occurrences to 
recall the memory of the old one.) " Doen't be 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 2/1 

down ! Cheer up, for your own self, on'y a little bit, 
and see if a good deal more doen't come nat'ral ! " 

" Not to me, Dan'l," returned Mrs. Gummidge, 
" Nothinks natural to me to be lone and lorn." 

" No, no," said Mr, Peggotty, soothing her sorrows. 

"Yes, yes, Dan'l!" said Mrs. Gummidge, "I 
ain t a person to Hve with them as has had money 
left. Thinks go too contrairy with me. I had better 
be a riddance." 

"Why, how should I ever spend it without you ?" 
said Mr. Peggotty, with an air of serious remon- 
strance. "What are you a talking of? Doen't I want 
you more now than ever I did ?" 

" I know'd I was never wanted before !" cried 
Mrs. Gummidge, with a pitiable whimper, " and now 
I'm told so ! How could I expect to be wanted, be- 
ing so lone and lorn, and so contrairy ?'' 

Mr. Peggotty seemed very much shocked at him- 
self for having made a speech capable of this unfeel- 
ing construction, but was prevented from replying by 
Mrs. Peggotty 's pulling his sleeve, and shaking her 
head. After looking at Mrs. Gummidge for some 
moments, in sore distress of mind, he glanced at the 
Dutch clock, rose, snuffed the candle, and put it in 
the window. 

" Theer !" said Mr. Peggotty, cheerily. " Theer 
we are, Missis Gummidge!" Mrs. Gummidge 
slightly groaned. *' Lighted up, accordin' to custom! 



2/2 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

You're a wonderin' what that's fur, sir ! Well, it's 
fur our little Em"ly. You see, the path ain't over 
light or cheerful arter dark ; and when I'm here at 
the hour as she's a comin' home, I puts the light in 
the winder. That you see," said Mr. Peggotty, bend- 
ing over me with great glee, " meets two objects. 
She says , says Em'ly, ' Theer's home !' she says. 
And likewise, says Em'ly, ' My uncle's theer !' Fur 
if I ain't theer, I never have no light showed." 

" You're a baby !" said Peggotty ; very fond of him 
for it, if she thought so. 

" Well,'' returned Mr. Peggotty, standing with his 
legs pretty wide apart, and rubbing his hands up 
and down them in his comfortable satisfaction, as he 
looked alternately at us and at the fire, "I don't 
know but I am. Not, you see, to look at." 

" Not azactly," observed Peggotty. 

" No !" laughed Mr. Peggotty, " not to look at, but 
to — consider on, you know. / doen't care, bless 
you. Now I tell you. When I go a looking and look- 
ing about that theer pritty house of our Em'ly's, I'm 
— I'm Gormed," said Mr. Peggotty, with sudden em- 
phasis — "theer ! I can't say more — if I doen't feel 
as if the littlest things was her, a'most. I takes 'em 
up and I puts 'em down, and I touches of 'em, as 
delicate as if they were our Em'ly. So 'tis with her 
little bonnets and that, I couldn't see one of 'em 
rough used a purpose — not for the whole wureld. 




MR. PEGGOTTY 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 2/3 

There's a babby for you, in the form of a great Sea 
Porkypine ?" said Mr. Peggotty, relieving his earnest- 
ness with a roar of laughter. 

Peggotty and I both laughed, but not so loud. 

" It's my opinion, you see,'' said Mr. Peggotty, 
with a delighted face, after some further rubbing of 
his legs, "as this is along of my havin' played with 
her so much, and made believe as we was Turks, 
and French, and sharks, and every variety of forin- 
ners — bless you, yes ; and lions and whales, and I 
doen't know what all ! — when she warn't no higher 
than my knee. Pve got into the way, on it, you 
know. Why, this here candle now !" said Mr. Peg- 
gotty, gleefully holding his hand out toward it, " / 
know wery well that arter she's married and gone, I 
shall put that candle theer just that same as now. I 
know wery well that when Pm here o' nights (and 
where else should / live, bless your arts, whatever 
fortun I come into !) and she ain't here, or I ain't 
theer, I shall put the candle in the winder, and sit 
afore the fire, pretending Pm expecting of her, like 
Pm a doing now. There's a babby for you," said 
Mr. Peggotty, with another roar, "in the form of a 
Sea Porkypine ! Why, at the present minute, when 
I see the candle sparkle up I says to myself, 'She's 
a looking at it! Em'ly's a coming!' There's a 
babby for you, in the form of a Sea Porkypine ! 
Right for all that/' said Mr. Peggotty, stopping in his 
i8 



274 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

roar, and smiting his hands together, "fur here she 
is!" 

It was only Ham. The night should have turned 
more wet since I came in, for he had a large sou'- 
wester hat on, slouched over his face. 

" Where's Em'ly ? " said Mr. Peggotty. 

Ham made a motion with his head as if she 
were outside. Mr. Peggotty took the light from the 
window, trimmed it, put it on the table, and was 
busily stirring the fire, when Ham who had not 
moved, said : 

" Mas'r Davy, will you come out a minute and 
see what Em'ly and me has got to show you ? " 

We went out. As I passed him at the door I saw 
to my utter astonishment and fright that he was 
deadly pale. He pushed me hastily into the open 
air and closed the door upon us. Only upon us two. 

''Ham! what's the matter?" 

" Mas'r Davy ! — " Oh, for his broken heart, 
how dreadfully he wept ! 

I was paralyzed by the sight of such grief. I 
didn't know what I thought, or what I dreaded. I 
could only look at him. 

" Ham ! Poor, good fellow ! For Heaven's sake 
tell me what's the matter ? " 

" My love, Mas'r Davy — the pride and hope of my 
'art — her that I'd have died for, and would die for 
now — she's gone ! '' 

" Gone ! " 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 2/5 

" Em'ly has run away ! Oh, Mas'r Davy, think 
ho%v she's run away, when I pray my good and gra- 
cious God to kill her (her that is so dear above all 
things) sooner than let her come to ruin and dis- 
grace ! " 

The face he turned up to the troubled sky, the 
quivering of his clasped hands, the agony of his 
figure, remain associated with that lonely waste, in 
my remembrance, to this hour. It is always night 
there, and he is the only object in the scene. 

" You're a scholar," he said, hurriedly, " and know 
what's right and best. What am I to say indoors ? 
How am I ever to break it to him, Mas'r Davy ? " 

I saw the door move, and instinctively tried to 
hold the latch on the outside, to gain a moment's 
time. It was too late, Mr, Peggotty thrust forth his 
face ; and never could I forget the change that came 
upon it when he saw us, if I were to live five hun- 
dred years, 

I remember a great wail and cry, and the women 
hanging about him, and we all standing in the room ; 
I with a paper in my hand, v/hich Ham had given 
me ; Mr. Peggotty with his vest torn open, his hair 
wild, his face and lips white, and blood trickling down 
his bosom (it had sprung from his mouth, I think) 
looking fixedly at me. 

" Read it, sir," he said, in a low, shivering voice. 
"Slow, please. I doen't know as I can understand." 



2/6 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

In the midst of the silence of death I read thus, 
from a blotted letter : 

" ' When you, who love me so much better than I ever 
have deserved, even when my mind was innocent, see this, I 
shall be far away,' '' 

" I shall be fur away," he repeated, slowly. " Stop ! 
Em'ly fur away. Well ! " 

*' ' When I leave my dear home — my dear home — oh, my 
dear home ! — in the morning.' " 

the letter bore date on the previous night : 

" * — it will be never to come back unless he brings me 
back a lady. This will be found at night, many hours after, 
instead of me. Oh, if you knew how my heart is torn. If 
even you, that I have wronged so much, that never can for- 
give me, could only know what I suffer ! I am too wicked 
to write about myself. Oh ! take comfort in thinking that I 
am so bad. Oh, for mercy's sake, tell uncle that I never 
loved him half so dear as now. Oh, don't remember how af- 
fectionate and kind you have all been to me — don't remem- 
ber we were ever to be married — but try to think as if I died 
when I was little, and was buried somewhere. Pray Heaven 
that I am going away from, have compassion on my uncle ! 
Tell him that I never loved him half so dear. Be his comfort. 
Love some good girl, that will be what I was once to uncle, 
and be true to you, and worthy of you, and know no shame 
but me. God bless all ! I'll pray for all, often on my knees. 
If he don't bring me back a lady, and I don't pray for my 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 27/ 

own self, I'll pray for all. My parting love to uncle. My last 
tears, and my last thanks, for uncle ! " 

That was all. 

He stood, long after I had ceased to read, still 
looking at me. At length I ventured to take his 
hand, and to entreat him, as well as I could, to en- 
deavor to get some command of himself. He replied, 
" I thankee, sir, I thankee ! " without moving. 

Ham spoke to him. Mr. Peggotty was so far sen- 
sible of his afflictions that he wrung his hands ; but, 
otherwise, he remained in the same state, and no 
one dared to disturb him. 

Slowly at last he moved his eyes from my face, as 
if he were waking from a vision, and cast them 
round the room. Then he said, in a low voice : 

" Who's the man ? 1 want to know his name." 

Ham glanced at me, and suddenly I felt a shock 
that struck me back. 

" There's a man suspected," said Mr. Peggotty, 
"Who is that?" 

" Mas'r Davy ! '' implored Ham. "Go out a bit 
and let me tell him what I must. You doen't ought 
to hear it, sir.'' 

I felt the shock again. I sank down in a chair 
and tried to utter some reply, but my tongue was fet- 
tered and my sight was weak. 

" I want to know his name ! '' I heard said once more. 

"For some time past," Ham faltered, " there's 



2/8 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

been a servant about here at odd times. There's 
been a gen'l'm'n too. Both of 'em belonging to one 
another.'' 

Mr. Peggotty stood fixed as before, but now look- 
ing at him. 

''The servant,'' pursued Ham, " was seen long 
with — our poor girl — last night. He's been in hiding 
about here this week or over. He was thought to 
have gone, but he was hiding. Doen't stay, Mas'r 
Davy, doen't ! " 

I felt Peggotty's arm around my neck, but I could not 
have moved if the house had been about to fall on me. 

" A strange shay and horses was outside town this 
morning, on the Norwich road, 'a most afore the day 
broke." Ham went on. "The servant went to it, 
and came from it, and went to it again. When he 
went to it again Em'ly was nigh him. The t'other 
was inside. He's the man." 

"For the Lord's love,'' said Mr. Peggotty, falling 
back and putting out his hand, as if to keep off what 
he dreaded. " Doen't tell me his name is Steerforth ! " 

" Mas'r Davy," exclaimed Ham, in a broken voice, 
*'it arn't no fault of yourn — and I am far from laying 
it to you, but his name is Steerforth, and he's a d-d vil- 
lain !" 

Mr. Peggotty uttered no cry, and shed no tear, 
and moved no more, until he seemed to wake again, 
all at once, and pulled down his rough coat from its 
peg in the corner. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 2/9 

*' Bear a hand with this ! I'm struck of a heap, and 
can't do it," he said, impatiently. " Bear a hand and 
help me ! Well!" when somebody has done so. 
" Now give me that theer hat !" 

Ham asked him whither he was going. 

" I'm going to seek my niece. I'm going to seek 
my Em'ly. I'm a going first, to stave in that theer 
boat, and sink* it where I would have drowned ///;;/, 
as I'm a livin' soul, if I had had one thought of what 
was in him ! As he sat afore me," he said, wildly, 
holding out his clenched right hand, " as he sat afore 
me, face to face, strike me down dead, but I'd have 
drowned him and thought it right. I'm a going to 
seek mxy niece !" 

" Where ? " cried Ham, interposing himself before 
the door. 

" Anywhere ! I'm a going to seek my niece through 
the wureld. I'm a going to find my poor niece in her 
shame, and bring her back. No one stop me ! I tell 
you Tm going to seek my niece ! " 

" No, no ! "cried Mrs. Gummidge, coming between 
them in a fit of crying, " No, no, Dan'l, not as you 
are now. Seek her in a little while, my lone lorn 
Dan'l, and that'l be but right ! but not as you are 
now. Sit ye down and give me your forgiveness for 
having ever been a worrit to you, Dan'l — what have 
viy contraries ever been to this ! — and let us speak 
a word about them times when she was first an or- 



280 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

phan, and when Ham was too, and when I was a 
poor widder woman, and you took me in. It'll 
soften your poor heart Uan'l,'' laying her head 
upon his shoulder, " and you'll bear your sorrow 
better ; for you know the promise, Dan'I, ' As you 
have done it unto one of the least of these, you have 
done it unto me ; ' and that can never fail under this 
roof, that's been our shelter for so many, many years. 

He was quite passive now ; and when I heard him 
crying, the impulse that had been upon me to go 
down upon my knees, and ask their pardon for the 
desolation I had caused, and curse Steerforth, 
yielded to a better feeling. My overcharged heart 
found the same relief, and I cried too 

What is natural in me, is natural in many other 
men, I infer, so I am not afraid to write that I never had 
loved Steerforth better than when the ties that bound 
me to him v/ere broken. In the keen distress of the 
discovery of his unworthiness, I thought more of all 
that was brilliant of him, I softened more toward all 
that was good in him, I did more justice to the qual- 
ities that might have made him a man of a noble 
nature and a great name, than ever I had done in 
the height of my devotion to him. Deeply as I felt 
my own unconscious part in the pollution of an hon- 
est home, I believe that if I had been brought face 
to face with him, I could not have uttered one re- 
proach. I should have loved him so well still — 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 28 1 

though he fascinated me no longer — I should have 
held in so much tenderness the memory of my affec- 
tion for him, that I think I should have been as weak 
as a spirit-wounded child, in all but the entertain- 
ment of a thought that we could ever be re-united. 
That thought I never had. I felt, as he had felt, that 
all was at an end between us. What his remem- 
brances of me were, I have never known — they were 
light enough, perhaps, and easily dismissed — but 
mine of him were as the remembrances of a cherished 
friend, who Vv^as dead. 

Yes, Steerforth, long removed from the scenes of 
this poor history ! My sorrow may bear involuntary 
witness against you at the Judgment Throne ; but 
my angry thoughts or reproaches never will, I know ! 



I now approach an event in my life, so indelible, 
so awful, so bound by infinite variety of ties to all 
that has preceded it, in these pages, that from the 
beginning of my narrative, I have seen it growing 
larger and larger as I advanced, like a great tower 
in a plain, and throwing its forecast shadow even on 
the incidents of my childish days. 

For years after it occurred, I dreamed of it often- 
I have started up so vividly impressed by it, that its 
fury has yet seemed raging in my quiet room, in the 
still night. I dream of it sometimes, though at 



282 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

lengthened and uncertain intervals, to this hour. I 
have an association between it and a stormy wind, or 
the Hghtest mention of a seashore, as strong as any 
of which my mind is conscious. As plainly as I be- 
hold what happened, I will try to write it down. I do 
not recall it, but see it done ; for it happens again 
before me. 

The time drawing on rapidly for the sailing of the 
emigrant ship, my good old nurse came up to Lon- 
don. I was constantly with her, and her brother, 
and the Micawbers (they being very much together). 

One evening when the time was close at hand, I 
was alone with Peggotty and her brother. Our con- 
versation turned on Ham. She described to us how 
tenderly he had taken leave of her, and how man- 
fully and quietly he had borne himself. Most of all, 
of late, when she believed he was most tried. It was 
a subject of which the affectionate creature never 
tired ; and our interest in hearing the many exam- 
ples, which she, who was so much with him, had to 
relate, was equal to hers in relating them. 

My aunt and I were at that time vacating the 
two cottages at Highgate ; I intending to go abroad, 
and she to return to her house at Dover. We had 
a temporary lodging in Convent Garden. As I 
walked home to it, after this evening's conversation, 
reflecting on what had passed between Ham and 
myself when I was last at Yarmouth, I wavered in 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 283 

the original purpose I had formed, of leaving a letter 
for Em'ly when I should take leave of her uncle on 
board the ship, and thought it would be better to 
write to her now. She might desire, I thought, after 
receiving my communication, to send some parting 
word by me to her unhappy lover. I ought to give 
her the opportunity. 

I therefore sat down in my room before going to 
bed and wrote to her. I told her that I had seen 
him, and that he had requested me to tell her what I 
have already written in its place in these sheets. I 
faithfully repeated it. I had no need to enlarge 
upon it if I had had the right. Its deep fidelity and 
goodness were not to be adorned by me or any 
man. I left it out, to be sent round in the morning, 
with a line to Mr. Peggotty, requesting him to give it 
to her, and went to bed at daybreak. 

I was weaker than I knew then, and, not falling 
asleep until the sun was up, lay late, and unre- 
freshed, next da3\ I was roused by the silent pres- 
ence of my aunt at my bedside. I felt it in my 
sleep, and I suppose we all do feel such things. 

" Trot, my dear," she said, when I opened my 
eyes. " I couldn't make up my mind to disturb you. 
Mr. Peggotty is here; shall he come up T' 

I replied yes, and he soon appeared. 

"Mas'r Davy," he said, when we had shaken 
hands. " I giv' Em'ly your letter, sir, and she writ 



284 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

this heer, and begged of me fur to ask you to read 
it, and if you see no hurt in't to be so kind as to take 
charge on't." 

" Have you read it?" said I. 

He nodded sorrowfully. I opened it and read as 
follows: 

" I have got your message. O, what can I write to thank 
you for your good and blessed kindness to me ? 

*' I have put the words close to my heart. I shall keep 
them till I die. They are sharp thorns, but they are such 
comfort. I have prayed over them, oh, I have prayed so 
much. When I find what you are, and what uncle is, 1 
think what God must be, and can cry to him. 

" Good-by for ever. Now, my dear, my friend, good-bye 
for ever in this world. In another world, if I am forgiven, I 
may wake a child and come to you. All thanks and bless- 
ings. Farewell, evermore." 

This, blotted with tears, was the letter. 

" May I tell her as you doen't see no hurt in't, and 
as you'll be so kind as to take charge on't, Mas'r 
Davy ?" said Mr. Peggotty, when I had read it. 

''Unquestionably,'' said I — "but I am think- 
ing " 

" Yes, Mas'r Davy ?" 

" I am thinking," said I, "that I'll go down again 
to Yarmouth. There's time, and to spare, for me to 
go and come back before the ship sails. My mind 



1 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 285 

is constantly running on him, in his sohtude ; to put 
this letter of her writing in his hand at this time, and 
to enable you to tell her, in the moment of parting, 
that he has got it, will be a kindness to both of them. 
I solemnly accepted his commission, dear good fel- 
low, and cannot discharge it too completely. The 
journey is nothing to me. I am restless, and shall 
be better in motion. I'll go down to-night.'' 

Though he anxiously endeavored to dissuade me, 
I saw that he was of my mind ; and this, if I had re- 
quired to be confirmed in my attention, would have 
had the effect. He went round to the coach-office, 
at my request, and took the box-seat for me on the 
mail. In the evening I started, by that conveyance, 
down the road I had traversed under so many vicis- 
situdes. 

" Don't you think that," I asked the coachman, in 
the first stage out of London, " a very remarkable, 
sky? I don't remember to have seen one like it." 

"Nor I — not equal to it," he replied. *' That's 
wind, sir. There'll be mischief done at sea, I expect 
before long." 

It was a murky confusion — here and there blotted 
with a color like the color of the smoke from damp 
fuel — of flying clouds tossed up into most remarkable 
heaps, suggesting greater heights in the clouds than 
there was depths below them to the bottom of the 
deepest hollows in the earth, through which the wild 



286 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

moon seemed to plunge headlong, as if, in a dread 
of disturbance of the laws of nature, she had lost her 
way and were frightened. There had been a wind 
all day : and it was rising then, with an extraordinary 
great sound; In another hour it had much increased, 
and the sky was more overcast, and blew hard. 

But as the night advanced, the clouds closing in 
and densely overspreading the whole sky, then very 
dark, it came on to blow, harder and harder. It still 
increased, until our horses could scarcely face the 
wind. Many times, in the dark part of the night ( it 
was then late in September, when the nights were 
not short), the leaders turned about, or came to a 
dead stop ; and were often in serious apprehension 
that the coach would be blown over. Sweeping 
gusts of rain came up before this storm, like showers 
of steel ; and, at those times, when there was any 
•shelter of trees or lee walls to be got, we were fain to 
stop, in sheer impossibility of continuing the struggle. 

When the day broke, it blew harder and harder. I 
had been in Yarmouth when the seamen said it blew 
great guns, but I had never known the like of this, or 
anything approaching to it. We came to Ipswich — 
very late, having had to fight every inch of ground 
since we were ten miles out of London ; a.nd found a 
cluster of people in the market-place, who had risen 
from their beds in the night, fearful of falling chim- 
neys. Some of these, congregating about the inn-yard 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 28/ 

while we changed horses, told us of great sheets of 
lead having been ripped off a church tower, and 
flung into a by-street, which they then blocked up. 
Others had to tell of country people, coming in from 
neighboring villages, who had seen great trees lying 
torn out of the earth, and whole bricks scattered 
about the roads and fields. Still there was no abate- 
ment in the storm, but it blew harder. 

As we struggled on, nearer and nearer to the sea, 
from which this mighty wind was blowing dead on 
shore, its force became more and more terrific. Long 
before we saw the sea, its spray was on our lips, and 
showered salt rain upon us. The water was out, 
over miles and miles of the flat country adjacent to 
Yarmouth ; and every sheet and puddle lashed its 
banks, and had its stress of httle breakers setting 
heavily toward us. When we came within sight of 
the sea, the waves on the horizon, caught at intervals 
above the rolling abyss, were like glimpses of 
another shore with towers and buildings. When at 
last we got into the town, the people came out to 
their doors, all aslant, and with streaming hair, mak- 
ing a wonder of the mail that had come through such 
a night. 

I put up at the old inn, and went down to look at 
the sea ; staggering along the street, which was 
strewn with sand and seaweed and with flying 
blotches of sea foam ; afraid of falling slates and tiles 



288 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

and holding by people I met, at angry corners. 
Coming near the beach, I saw, not only the boat- 
men, but half the people of the town, lurking behind 
buildings ; some, now and then braving the fury of 
the storm to look away to sea, and blown sheer out 
of their course in trying to get zigzag back. 

Joining these groups, I found bewailing women 
whose husbands were away in herring or oyster 
boats, which there was too much reason to think 
might have foundered before they could run in any- 
where for safety. Grizzled old sailors were among 
the people, shaking their heads, as they looked from 
water to sky, and muttering to one another; 
shipowners, excited and uneasy ; children huddling 
together, and peering into older faces ; even stout 
mariners, disturbed and anxious, leveling their 
glasses at the sea from behind places of shelter, as 
if they were surveying an enemy. 

The tremendous sea itself, when I could find suffi- 
cient pause to look at it, in the agitation of the blind- 
ing wind, the flying stones and sand, and the awful 
noise, confounded me. As the high watery walls 
came rolHng in, and, at their highest, tumbled into 
surf, they looked as if the least would ingulf the 
town. As the receding wave swept back with a 
hoarse roar, it seemed to scoop out a deep cave in 
the beach, as if its purpose were to undermine the 
earth. When some white-headed billows thundered 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 289 

on, and dashed themselves to pieces before they 
reached the land, every fragament of the late whole 
seemed possessed by the full might of its wrath, rush- 
ing to be gathered to the composition of another 
monster. Undulating hills were changed to valleys, 
undulating valleys (with a solitary storm-bird some- 
times skimming through them) were lifted up to 
hills ; masses of water shivered and shook the beach 
with a booming sound ; every shape tumultuously 
rolled on, as soon as made, to change its shape and 
place, and beat another shape and place away ; the 
ideal shore on the horizon, with its towers and build- 
ings, rose and fell ; the clouds flew fast and quick ; 
I seemed to see a rending and upheaving of all 
nature. 

Not finding Ham among the people whom this 
memorable wind — for it is still remembered down 
there, as the greatest ever known to blow upon that 
coast — had brought together, I made my way to his 
house. It was shut; and as no one answered to my 
knocking, I went, by backways and by-lanes, to the 
yard where he worked. I learned there that he had 
gone to Lowestoft, to meet some sudden exigency of 
ship-repairing in which his skill was required ; but 
that he would be back to-morrow morning, in good 
time. 

I went back to the inn ; and when I had washed 
and dressed, and tried to sleep, but in vain, it was 
19 



JQO MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 



five o'clock in the afternoon, I had not sat five min 
utes by the coffee room fire, when the waiter coming 
to stir it, as an excuse for talking, told me that two 
colliers had gone down, with all hands, a few miles 
away; and that some other ships had been seen 
laboring hard in the Roads, and trying, in great dis- 
tress, to keep off shore. Mercy on them, and on all 
poor sailors, said he, if we had another night like the 
last! 

I was very much depressed in spirits ; very soli- 
tary ; and felt an uneasiness in Ham's not being 
there, disproportionate to the occasion. I was seri- 
ously affected, without knowing how much, by late 
events; and my long exposure to the fierce wind had 
confused me. There was that jumble in my thoughts 
and recollections, that I had lost the clear arrange- 
ment of time and distance. Thus, if I had gone out 
into the town, I should not have been surprised, I 
think, to encounter some one who I knew must then 
be in London. So to speak, there was in these re- 
spects a curious inattention in my mind. Yet it was 
busy, too, with all the remembrances the place nat- 
urally awakened ; and they were particularly distinct 
and vivid. 

In this state, the waiter's dismal intelligence about 
the ships immediately connected itself, without any 
effort of my volition, with my uneasiness about Ham. 
I was persuaded that I had an apprehension of his 



■ 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 29I 

returning from Lowestoft by sea, and being lost. 
This grew so strong with me, that I resolved to go 
back to the yard before I took my dinner, and ask 
the boat-builder if he thought his attempting to return 
by sea at all likely ? If he gave me the least reason 
to think so, I would go over to Lowestoft and pre- 
vent it by bringing him with me. 

I hastily ordered my dinner, and went back to the 
yard. I was none too soon ; for the boat-builder, 
with a lantern in his hand, was locking the yard-gate. 
le quite laughed, when I asked him the question, 
and said there was no fear ; no man in his senses, 
or out of them, would put off in such a gale of wind, 
least of all Ham Peggotty, who had been born to 
seafaring. 

So sensible of this, beforehand, that I had really 
felt ashamed of doing what I was nevertheless im- 
pelled to do, I went back to the inn. If such a wind 
could rise, I think it was rising. The howl and roar, 
the rattling of the doors and windows, the rumibling 
in the chimneys, the apparent rocking of the very 
house that sheltered me, and the prodigious tumult 
of the sea, were more fearful than in the morning. 
But there was now a great darkness besides ; and 
that invested the storm with new terrors, real and 
fanciful. 

I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not 
continue steadfast to anything. Something within 



292 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

me, faintly answering in the storm without, tossed up 
the depths of my memory, and made a tumult within 
them. Yet in ail the hurry of my thoughts, wild 
running with the thundering sea — the storm and my 
uneasiness regarding Ham were always in the fore- 
ground. 

My dinner went away almost untasted, and I tried 
to refresh myself with a glass or two of wine. In 
vain. I fell into a dull slumber before the fire, with- 
out losing my consciousness, either of the uproar, out 
of doors, or of the place in which I was. Both be- 
came overshadowed by a new and indefinable horror; 
and when I awoke — or rather when I shook off the 
lethargy that bound me in my chair — my whole frame 
thrilled with objectless and unintelligible fear. 

I walked to and fro ; tried to read an old gazetteer ; 
listened'to the awful noises ; looked at faces, scenes, 
and figures in the fire. At length, the steady ticking 
of the undisturbed clock on the wall tormented me 
to that degree that I resolved to go to bed. 

It was re assuring, on such a night, to be told that 
some of the inn-servants had agreed together to sit 
up, until morning. I went to bed exceedingly weary 
and heavy ; but, on my lying down, all such sensa- 
tions vanished as if by magic, and I was broad 
awake, with every sense refined. 

For hours I lay there, listening to the wind and 
water, imagining, now, that I heard shrieks out at 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 293 

sea ; now, that I distinctly heard the firing of signal 
guns ; and now, the fall of houses in the town. I 
got up several times, and looked out ; but could see 
nothing except the reflection in the window panes of 
the faint candle I had left burning, and of my own 
haggard face looking in at me from the black void. 

At length my restlessness attained to such a pitch, 
that I hurried on my clothes, and went down-stairs. 
In a large kitchen, where I dimly saw bacon and 
ropes of onions hanging from the beams, the watchers 
were clustered together, in various attitudes about a 
table, purposely moved away from the great chim- 
ney, and brought near the door. A pretty girl, who 
had her ears stopped with her apron, and her eyes 
upon the door, screamed when I appeared, sup- 
posing me to be a spirit; but the others had more 
presence of mind, and were glad of an addition to 
their company. One man, referring to the topic they 
had been discussing, asked me whether I thought 
the souls of the collier-crews who had gone down, 
were out in the storm. 

I remained there, I dare say, two hours. Once I 
opened the yardgate, and looked into the empty 
street. The sand, the sea- weed, and the flakes of 
foam were driving by ; and I was obliged to call for 
assistance before I could shut the gate again, and 
make it fast against the wind. 

There was a dark gloom in my solitary chamber. 



294 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

when I at length returned to it ; but I was tired, now, 
and, getting into bed again, fell — off a tower and 
down a precipice — into the depths of sleep. I have 
an impression that for a long time, though I dreamed 
of being elsewhere and in a variety of scenes, it 
was always blowing in my dream. At length I lost 
that feeble hold upon reality, and was engaged with 
two dear friends, but who they were I don't know, at 
the siege of some town in a roar of cannonad- 
ing. 

The thunder of the cannon was so loud and inces- 
sant that I could not hear something I much desired 
to hear, until I made a great exertion and awoke. 
It was broad day — eight or nine o'clock ; the storm 
raging, in lieu of the batteries ; and some one knock- 
ing and calling at my door. 

" What is the matter ? " I cried. 

" A wreck ! Close by ! " 

I sprung out of bed, and asked, "What wreck?" 

" A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with 
fruit and wine. Make haste, sir, if you want to see 
her ! It's thought, down on the beach, she'll go to 
pieces every moment." 

The excited voice went clamoring along the stair- 
case ; and I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly 
as I could, and ran into the street. 

Numbers of people were there before me, all run- 
ning in one direction, to the beach. I ran the same 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 295 

way, outstripping a good many, and soon came fac- 
ing the wild sea. 

The wind might by this time have lulled a little, 
though not more sensibly than if the cannonading I 
had dreamed of had been diminished by the silenc- 
ing of half a dozen guns out of hundreds. But the 
sea, having upon it the additional agitation of the 
whole night, was infinitely more terrific than when I 
had seen it last. Every appearance it had then pre- 
sented bore the expression of being swelled ; and 
the height to which the breakers rose, and, looking 
over one another, bore one another down, and rolled 
in, in interminable hosts, was most appalling. 

In the difficulty of hearing anything but the wind 
and waves, and in the crowd, and the unspeakable 
confusion, and my first breathless efforts to stand 
against the weather, I was so confused that I looked 
out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing but the 
foaming heads of the great waves. A half-dressed 
boatman, standing next to me, pointed with his bare 
arm (a tattooed arrow on it, pointing in the same 
direction) to the left. Then, O, great Heaven, I 
saw it, close in upon us ! 

One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet 
from the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in a 
maze of sail and rigging ; and all that ruin, as the 
ship rolled and beat — which she did without a mo- 
ment's pause, and with a violence quite inconceiv- 



296 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

able — beat the side as if it would stave it in. Some 
efforts were even then being made to cut this portion 
of the wreck away ; for as the ship, which was broad- 
side on, turned toward us in her rolHng, I plainly 
descried her people at work with axes, especially 
one active figure with long curling hair, conspic- 
uous among the rest. But a great cry, which was 
audible even above the wind and water, rose from 
the shore at this moment ; the sea, sweeping over 
the rolling wreck, made a clean breach, and carried 
men, spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of such 
toys, into the boiling surge. 

The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of 
a rent sail and a wild confusion of broken cordage 
flapping to and fro. The ship had struck once, the 
same boatman hoarsely said in my ear, and then 
lifted in and struck again. I understood him to add 
that she was parting amidships, and I could readily 
suppose so, for the rolling and beating were too tre- 
mendous for any human work to suffer long. As he 
spoke there was another great cry of pity from the 
beach ; four men arose with the wreck out of the 
deep, clinging to the rigging of the remaining mast ; 
uppermost the active figure with the curling hair. 

There was a bell on board, and as the ship rolled 
and dashed, like a desperate creature driven mad, 
now showing us the whole sweep of her deck, as she 
turned on her beams-ends toward the shore, now 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 297 

nothing but her keel, as she sprung wildly over and 
turned toward the sea, the bell rang and its sound, 
the knell of those unhappy men, was borne toward 
us on the wind. Again we lost her, and again she 
rose. Two men were gone. The agony on shoie 
increased. Men groaned and clasped their hands ; 
women shrieked and turned away their faces. Some 
ran wildly up and down along the beach, crying for 
help where no help could be. I found myself one of 
these, frantically imploring a knot of sailors whom I 
knew not to let those two creatures perish before our 
eyes. 

They were making out to me, in an agitated way 
— I don't know how, for the little I could hear I was 
scarcely composed enough to understand — that the 
life-boat had been bravely manned an hour ago, and 
could do nothing ; and that, as no man would be so 
desperate as to attempt to wade off with a rope, and 
establish a communication with the shore, there was 
nothing left to try ; when I noticed that some new 
sensation moved the people on the beach, and saw 
them part, and Ham coming breaking through them 
to the front. 

I ran to him — as well as I know, to repeat my 
appeal for help. But distracted though I was, by a 
sight so new to me and terrible, the determination in 
his face, and his look out to sea — exactly the same 
look as I remembered in connection with the morn- 



298 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

ing after Em'ly's flight — awoke me to a knowledge 
of his danger. I held him back with both arms ; and 
implored the men with whom I had been speaking, 
not to listen to him, not to do murder, not to let him 
stir from off that sand. 

Another cry arose on shore ; and looking to the 
wreck, we saw the cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat 
off the lower of the two men, and fly up in triumph 
round the active figure left alone upon the mast. 

Against such a sight, and against such determina- 
tion as that of the calmly -desperate man who was 
already accustomed to lead half the people present, 
I might as hopefully have entreated the wind. 
" Mas'r Davy,'' he said, cheerily grasping me by 
both hands, "if my time is come, 'tis come. If tain't, 
I'll bide it. Lord above bless you, and bless all ! 
Mates, make me ready ! I'm a going off." 

I was swept away, but not unkindly, to some dis- 
tance, where the people around me made me stay ; 
urging, as I confusedly perceived, that he was bent 
on going, with help or without, and that I should en- 
danger the precautions for his safety by troubling 
those with whom they rested. I don't know what I 
answered, or what they rejoined; but, I saw hurry 
on the beach, and men running with ropes from a 
capstan that was there, and penetrating into a circle 
of figures that hid him from me. Then I saw him 
standing alone in a seaman's frock and trousers ; a 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 299 

rope in his hand, or slung to his wrist ; another 
round his body ; and several of the best men hold- 
ing, at a little distance, to the latter, which he laid 
out himself, slack upon the shore at his feet. 

The wreck, even to my unpracticed eye, was break- 
ing up. I saw that she was parting in the middle^ 
and that the life of the solitary man upon the mast 
hung by a thread. Still he clung to it. He had a 
singular red cap on — not like a sailor's cap, but of a 
finer color ; and as the few yielding planks between 
him and destruction rolled and bulged, and his anti- 
cipative death knell rung, he was seen by all of us to 
wave it. I saw him do it now, and thought I was 
going distracted, when his action brought an old re- 
membrance to my mind of a once dear friend. 

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the 
silence of suspended breath behind him, and the 
storm before, until there was a great retiring wave, 
when, with a backward glance at those who held the 
rope which was made fast round his body, he dashed 
in after it, and in a moment was buffeting with the 
water ; rising with the hills, falling with the valleys, 
lost beneath the foam ; then drav/n again to land. 
They hauled in hastily. 

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where 
I stood ; but he took no thought of that. He seemed 
hurriedly to give them some directions for leaving 
him more free — or so I judged from the motion of 
his arm — and was gone as before. 



300 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the 
hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged 
foam, borne inward toward the shore, borne on to- 
ward the ship, striving hard and vahantly. The dis- 
tance was nothing, but the power of the sea and 
wind made the strife deadly. At length he neared 
the wreck. He was so near, that with one more 
of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging to 
it — when a high, green, vast hillside of water, mov- 
ing on shoreward, from beyond the ship, he seemed 
to leap up into it with a mighty bound, and the ship 
was gone ! 

Some eddying fragments I sav/ in the sea, as if a 
mere cask had been broken, in running to the spot 
where they were hauling in. Consternation was in 
every face. They drew him to my very feet — insen- 
sible — dead. He was carried to the nearest house ; 
and no one preventing me now, I remained near 
him, busy while every means of restoration was 
tried ; but he had been beaten to death by the great 
wave, and his generous heart was stilled forever. 

As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned 
and all was done, a fisherman, who had known me 
when Em'ly and I were children, and ever since, 
whispered my name at the door. 

" Sir," said he, with tears starting to his weather- 
beaten face, which, with his trembling hps, was ashy 
pale, " will you come over yonder .? " 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 3OI 

The old remembrance that had been recalled to 
me, was in his look. I asked him, terror-stricken, 
leaning on the arm he held out to support me : 

" Has a body come ashore ? " 

He said "Yes.'' 

" Do I know it ? '' I asked then. 

He answered nothing. 

But he led me to the shore. And on the part of it 
where she and I had looked for shells, two children 
— on that part of it where some lighter fragments of 
the old boat, blown down last night, had been scat- 
tered by the wind — among the ruins of the home he 
had wronged — I saw him lying with his head upon 
his arms, as I had often seen him lie at school. 

No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last 
spoke together, in that hour which I so little deemed 
to be our parting-hour — no need to have said, 
" Think of me at my best ! " I had done that ever ; 
and could I change now, looking on this sight. 

They brought a hand-bier, and laid him on it, and 
covered him with a flag, and took him up and bore 
him on toward the houses. All the men who car- 
ried him had known him, and gone sailing with him, 
and seen him merry and bold. They carried him 
through the wild roar, a hush in the midst of all the 
tumult ; and took him to the cottage where Death 
was already. 



302 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

But, when they set the bier down on the threshold, 
they looked at one another, and at me, and whis- 
pered. I knew why. They felt as if it were not right 
to lay him down in the same quiet room. 

We went into the town, and took our burden to 
the inn. So soon as I could at all collect my 
thoughts, I sent for Joram, and begged him to pro- 
vide me a conveyance in which it could be got to 
London in the night. 

I chose the night for the journey, that there might 
be less curiosity when I left the town. But, although 
it was nearly midnight when I came out of the yard 
in a chaise, followed by what I had in charge, there 
were many people waiting. At intervals, along the 
town, and even a little way out upon the road, I 
saw more : but at length only the bleak night a'nd 
the open country were around me and the ashes of 
my youthful friendship. 



LITTLE DORRIT. 



303 



LITTLE DORRIT. 



T ITTLB DORRIT had not attained her twenty- 
■^ second birthday without finding a lover. Even 
in the sallow Marshalsea, the ever young Archer shot 
off a few featherless arrows now and then from a 
moldy bow, and winged a Collegian or two. 

Little Dorrit's lover, however, was not a Collegian. 
He was the sentimental son of a turnkey. His father 
hoped, in the fullness of time, to leave him the 
inheritance of an unstained key, and had from his 
early youth familiarized him with the duties of his 
office, and Avith an ambition to retain the prison-lock 
in the family. While the succession was yet in 
abeyance, he assisted his mother in the conduct of a 
snug tobacco business round the corner of Horse- 
monger Lane (his father being a non-resident turn- 
key), which could usually command a neat connection 
within the College walls. 

Years agone, when the object of his affections was 
v;ont to sit in her little arm-chair, by the high lodge- 
fender, Young John (family name Chivery), a year 
20 305 



306 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

older than herself, had eyed her with admiring 
wonder. When he had played with her in the yard, 
his favorite game had been to counterfeit locking her 
up in corners, and counterfeit letting her out for real 
kisses. When he grew tall enough to peep through 
the keyhole of the great lock of the main door, he 
had divers times set down his father's dinner, or 
supper, to get on as it might on the other side thereof, 
while he stood taking cold in one eye by dint of 
peeping at her through that airy perspective. 

If Young John had ever slackened in his truth in 
the less penetrable days of his boyhood, when youth 
is prone to wear its boots unlaced, and is happily 
unconscious of digestive organs, he had soon strung 
it up again and screwed it tight. At nineteen his 
hand had inscribed in chalk on that part of the wall 
which fronted her lodging, on the occasion of her 
birthday. " Welcome, sweet nursling of the Fairies ! " 
At twenty-three, the same hand falteringly presented 
cigars on Sundays to the Father of the Marshalsea 
and Father of the queen of his soul. 

Young John was small of stature, with rather weak 
legs and very weak light hair. One of his eyes 
(perhaps the eye that used to peep through the key- 
hole) was also weak and looked larger than the 
other, as if it couldn't collect itself. Young John 
was gentle, likewise. But he was great of soul. 
Poetical, expansive, faithful. 



LITTLE DORRIT. 30/ 

Though too humble before the ruler of his heart to 
be sanguine, Young John had consiaered the object 
of his attachment in all its lights and shades. Fol- 
lowing it out to blissful results, he had descried, 
without self-commendation, a fitness in it. Say things 
prospered, and they were united. She, the child of 
the Marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper. There was a 
fitness in that. Say he become a resident turnkey. 
She would officially succeed to the chamber she had 
rented so long. There was a beautiful propriety in 
that. It looked over the wall, if you stood on tiptoe; 
and with a trellis-work of scarlet beans and a canary 
or so, would become a very Arbor. There was a 
charming idea in that. Then, being all in all to one 
another, there was even an appropriate grace in the 
lock. With the world shut out (except that part of 
it which would be shut in) ; with its troubles and 
disturbances only known to them by hearsay, as 
they would be described by the pilgrims tarrying 
with them on their way to the Insolvent Shrine ; with 
the Arbor above and the Lodge below ; they would 
glide down the stream of time, in pastoral domestic 
happiness. Young John drew tears from his eyes 
by finishing the picture with a tombstone in the 
adjoining church-yard, close against the prison wall, 
bearing the following touching inscription : " Sacred 
to the Memory of John Chivery, Sixty years Turn- 
key, and fifty years Head Turnkey, Of the neigh- 



308 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

boring Marshalsea, who departed this life universally 
respected, on the thirty-first of December, One 
thousand eight hundred and eighty-six, Aged eighty- 
three years. Also of his truly beloved and truly 
loving wife, Amy, whose maiden name was Dorrit, 
Who survived his loss not quite forty -eight hours. 
And who breathed her last in the Marshalsea afore- 
said. There she was born. There she lived, There 
she died." 

The Chivery parents were not ignorant of their 
son's attachment — indeed it had, on some exceptional 
occasions, thrown him into a state of mind that had 
impelled him to conduct himself with irascibility 
toward the customers, and damage the business — but 
they, in their turns, had worked it out to desirable 
conclusions. Mrs. Chivery, a prudent woman, had 
desired her husband to take notice that their John's 
prospects of the Lock would certainty be strength- 
ened by an alliance with Miss Dorrit, who had her- 
self a kind of claim upon the College, and was much 
respected there. Mrs. Chivery had desired her hus- 
band to take notice that if, on the one handj their 
John had means and a post of trust, on the other 
hand, Miss Dorrit had family : and that her (Mrs. 
Chivery's) sentiment was, that two halves made a 
whole. Mrs. Chivery, as a mother and not as a 
diplomatist, had then, from a different point of view, 
desJred her husband to recollect that their John had 



LITTLE DORRIT. 3O9 

never been strong, and that his love had fretted and 
worritted him enough as it was, without his being driven 
to do himself a mischief, as nobody couldn't say he 
wouldn't be if he was crossed. These arguments had 
so powerfully influenced the mind of Mr. Chivery, 
who was a man of few words, that he had, on sundry 
Sunday mornings, given his boy what he termed 
"a lucky touch,'' signifying that he considered such 
commendation of him to Good Fortune, preparatory 
to his that day declaring his passion and becoming 
triumphant. But Young John had never taken 
courage to make the declaration ; and it was princi- 
pally on these occasions that he had returned excited 
to the tobacco shop, and flown at the customers. 

In this affair, as in every other, little Dorrit herself 
was the last person considered. Her brother and 
sister were aware of it, and attained a sort of station 
by making a peg of it on which to air the miserable 
ragged old fiction of the family gentihty. Her sister 
asserted the family gentility, by flouting the poor 
swain as he loitered about the prison for glimpses of 
his dear. Tip asserted the family gentility, and his 
own, by coming out in the character of the aristo- 
tratic brothers, and loftily swaggering in the little 
skittle ground respecting seizures by the scuff of the 
neck, which there were looming probabilities of some 
gentleman unknown executing on some little puppy 
not mentioned. These were not the only members of 



3IO MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

the Dorrit family who turned it to the account. No, 
no. The father of the Marshalsea was supposed 
to know nothing about the matter, of course: his 
poor dignity could not see so low. But he took the 
cigars on Sundays, and was glad to get them ; and 
sometimes even condescended to walk up and down 
the yard with the donor (who was proud and hopeful 
then), and benignantly to smoke one in his society. 
With no less readiness and condescension did he 
receive attentions from Chivery Senior, who always 
relinquished his armchair and newspaper to him, 
when he came into the lodge during one of the spells 
of duty ; and who had even mentioned to him, that 
if he would like at any time after dusk quietly to step 
out into the fore-court and take a look at the street, 
there was not much to prevent him. If he did not 
avail himself of this latter civility, it was only because 
he had lost the relish for it ; inasmuch as he took 
everything else he could get, and would say at 
times, " Extremely civil person, Chivery ; very atten- 
tive man and very respectful. Young Chivery, too ; 
really almost with a delicate perception of one's 
position here. A very well conducted family indeed, 
the Chiveries. Their behavior gratifies me.'' 

The devoted Young John all this time regarded 
the family with reverence. He never dreamed of 
disputing their pretensions, but did homage to the 
miserable Mumbo Jumbo they paraded. As to resent- 



LITTLE DORRIT. 3II 

ing any affront from her brother, he would have felt, 
even if he had not naturally been of a most pacific 
disposition, that to wag his tongue or lift his hand 
against that sacred gentleman would be an unhal- 
lowed act. He was soiry that his noble mind should 
take offense : still, he felt the fact not to' be incom- 
patible with its nobility, and sought to propitiate and 
conciliate that gallant soul. Her father, a gentleman 
in misfortune — a gentleman of a fine spirit and 
courtly manners, who always bore with him — he 
deeply honored. Her sister he considered somewhat 
vain and proud, but a young lady of infinite accom- 
plishments, who could not forget the past. It was an 
instinctive testimony to Little Dorritt's worth, and 
different from all the rest, that the poor young fellow 
honored and loved her for being simply what she 
was. 

The tobacco business around the corner of Horse- 
monger Lane was carried on in a rural establishment 
one story high, which had the benefit of the air from 
the yards of Horsemonger Lane Jail, and the advant- 
age of a retired walk under the wall of that pleasant 
establishment. The business was of too modest a 
character to support a life-sized Highlander, but it 
maintained a little one on a bracket on the doorpost, 
who looked like a fallen Cherub that had found it 
necessary to take to a kilt. 

From the portal thus decorated, one Sunday after 



312 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

an early dinner of baked viands, Young John issued 
forth on his usual Sunday errand ; not empty-handed, 
but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly at- 
tired in a plum-colored coat, with as large a collar of 
black velvet as his figure could carry ; a silken 
waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs ; a chaste 
neckerchief much in vogue at that day, representing 
a preserve of lilac pheasants on a buff ground ; pan- 
taloons so highly decorated with side stripes, that 
each leg was a three-stringed lute ; and a hat of state, 
very high and hard. When the prudent Mrs. Chivery 
perceived that in addition to these adornments her 
John carried a pair of white kid gloves, and a cane 
like a little finger-post, surmounted by an ivory 
hand marshaling him in the way that he should go ; 
and when she saw him, in his heavy marching order, 
turning the corner to the right, she remarked to Mr. 
Chivery, who was home at the time, that she thought 
she knew which way the wind blew. 

The Collegians were entertaining a considerable 
number of visitors that Sunday afternoon, and their 
Father kept his room for the purpose of receiving 
presentations. After making a tour of the yard, Little 
Dorrit's lover with a hurried heart went up stairs, and 
knocked with his knuckles at the Father's door. 

" Come in, come in ! " said a gracious voice. The 
Father's voice, her father's voice, the Marshalsea's 
father's. He was seated in his black velvet cap, 



LITTLE DORRIT. 313 

with his newspaper, three-and-six-pence accidentally 
left on the table and two chairs arranged. Everything 
prepared for holding his Court. 

" Ah, Young John ! How do you do, how do you 
do?" 

" Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the 
same." 

" Yes, John Chivery ; yes. Nothing to complain of." 

*' I have taken the liberty, sir, of " 

" Eh ? " The Father of the Marshalsea always 
lifted up his eyebrows at this point, and became 
p.miably distraught, and smilingly absent in mind. 

" — A few cigars sir.'' 

" Oh ! '' (For the moment, excessively surprised.) 
" Thank you. Young John, thank you. But really, I 

am afraid I am too No ? Well, then, I will say no 

more about it. Put them on the mantel-shelf if yon 
please, Young John. And sit down, sit down. You 
are not a stranger, John.'' 

" Thank you, sir, I am sure — Miss ; " here Young 
John turned the hat round and round upon his left 
hand, like a slowly twirling mouse cage ; " Miss Amy 
quite well, sir ?'' 

" Yes, John, yes ; very well. She is out.'' 

" Indeed, sir?" 

" Yes, John. Miss Amy is gone for an airing. 
My young people all go out a good deal. But at 
their time of life it's natural, John." 



314 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

"Very much so, I am sure, sir." 

" An airing. An airing. Yes." He was blandly 
tapping his fingers on the table, and casting his eyes 
at the window. " Amy has gone for an airing on the 
Iron Bridge. She has become quite partial to the 
Iron Bridge of late, and seems to like to walk there 
better than anywhere.*" He returned to conversation. 
" Your father is not on duty at present, I think, John ? ' ' 

"No, sir, he comes on later in the afternoon." 
Another twirl of the great hat, and then Young 
John said, rising. " I am afraid I must wish you 
good-day, sir." 

" So soon ? Good-day, Young John. Nay, nay," 
with the utmost condescension, " never mind your 
glove, John. Shake hands with it on. You are no 
stranger here you know." 

Highly gratified by the kindness of his reception, 
Young John descended the staircase. On his way 
he met some Collegians bringing up visitors to be 
presented, and at that moment Mr. Dorrit hap- 
pened to call over the banisters with particular 
distinctness, '' Much obliged to you for your little 
testimonial, John ! " 

Little Dorrit's lover very soon laid down his penny 
on the toll-plate of the Iron Bridge, and came upon 
it looking about him for the well-known and well- 
beloved figure. At first he feared she was not there ; 
but as he walked on toward the Middlesex side, he 



LITTLE DORRIT. 315 

saw her standing still, looking at the water. She was 
absorbed in thought, and he wondered what she 
might be thinking about. There were the piles of 
city roofs and chimneys, more free from smoke 
tlian on week days ; and there were the distant 
masts and steeples. Perhaps she was thinking about 
them. 

Little Dorrit mused so long, and was so entirely 
preoccupied, that although her lover stood quiet for 
what he thought was a long time, and twice or thrice 
retired and came back again to the former spot, still 
she did not move. So, in the end, he made up his 
mind to go on, and seem to come upon her casually 
in passing, and speak to her. The place was 
quiet, and now or never was the time to speak to 
her. 

He walked on, and she did not hear his steps until 
he was close upon her. When he said " Miss Dor- 
rit ! " she started and fell back from him, with an ex- 
pression in her face of fright and something like dis- 
like that caused him unutterable dismay. She had 
often avoided him before — always, indeed, for a long, 
long while. She had turned away and glided off, so 
often, when she had seen him coming toward her, 
that the unfortunate Young John could not think it 
accidental. But he hoped that it might be shyness, 
her retiring character, her foreknowledge of the state 
of his heart, anything short of aversion. Now, that 



3l6 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

momentary look had said. " You of all people ! I 
would rather have seen anyone on earth than you ! " 

It was but a momentary look, inasmuch as she 
choked it, and said, in her soft little voice, " Oh, Mr. 
John! Is it you ?" But she felt what it had been, 
and they stood looking at one another equally con- 
fused. 

" Miss Amy, I am afraid I disturbed you by speak- 
ing to you." 

" Yes, rather. I — I came here to be alone, and I 
thought I was." 

" Miss Amy, I took the liberty of walking this way, 
because Mr. Dorrit chanced to mention, when I called 
upon him, that you " 

She caused him more dismay than before by sud- 
denly murmuring, " O, father, father!" in a heart- 
rending tone, and turning her face away. 

" Miss, Amy, I hope I don't give you any uneasi- 
ness by naming Mr. Dorrit. I assure you I found 
him very well, and in the best of spirits, and he 
showed me even more than his usual kindness; be- 
ing so very kind as to say that I was not a stranger 
there, and in all ways gratifying me very much," 

To the inexpressible consternation of her lover, 
Little Dorrit, with her hands to her averted face, 
and rocking herself where she stood, as if she were 
in pain, murmured, " O, father, how can you ! O, 
dear, dear, father, how can you, can you, do it! " 



LITTLE DORRIT. 317 

The poor fellow stood gazing at her, overflowing 
with sympathy, but not knowing what to make of 
this, until, having taken out her handkerchief and 
put it to her still averted face, she hurried away. At 
first he remained stock still ; then hurried after her. 

" Miss Amy, pray! Will you have the goodness 
to stop a moment ? Miss Amy, if it comes to that, 
let 7iie go. I shall go out of my senses, if I have to 
think that I have driven you away like this.'' 

His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness 
brought Little Dorrit to a stop. " O, I don't know 
what to do," she cried ; "I don't know what to do ! '' 

To Young John, who had never seen her bereft of 
her quiet self-command, who had seen her from her 
infancy ever so reliable and self-suppressed, there was 
a shock in her distress, and in having to associate 
himself with it as its cause, that shook him from his 
great hat to the pavement. He felt it necessary to 
explain himself. He might be misunderstood — sup- 
posed to mean something, or to have done some- 
thing, that had never entered into his imagination. 
He begged her to hear him explain himself, as the 
greatest favor she could show him. 

" Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is 
far above mine. It were vain to conceal it. There 
never was a Chivery a gentleman that ever I heard 
of, and I will not commit the meanness of making a 
false representation on a subject so momentous. 



3l8 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Miss Amy, I know very well that your high-souled 
brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn me 
from a height. What I have to do is to respect them, 
to wish to be admitted to their friendship, to look up 
at the eminence on which they are placed, from my 
lowlier station — for, whether viewed as tobacco or 
viewed as the lock, I well know it is lowly — and ever 
wish them well and happy." 

There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, 
and a contrast between the hardness of his hat and 
the softness of his heart (albeit, perhaps, of his head, 
too), that was moving. Little Dorrit entreated him 
to disparage neither himself nor his station, and, 
above all things, to divest himself of any idea that 
she supposed hers to be superior. This gave him a 
little comfort. 

" Miss Amy," he then stammered, " I have had 
for a long time — ages they seem to me — Revolving 
ages — a heart-cherished wish to say something to you. 
May I say it?" 

Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side 
again, with the faintest shadow of her former look; 
conquering that, she went on at great speed half 
across the bridge without replying : 

" May I — Miss Amy, I but ask the question hum- 
bly — may I say it ? I have been so unlucky already 
in giving you pain, without having any such inten- 
tions, before the holy Heavens ! that there is no fear 



LITTLE DORRIT. 319 

of my saying it unless I have your leave. I can be 
miserable alone, I can be cut up by myself; why 
should I also make miserable and cut up one, that I 
would fling myself off that parapet to give half a 
moment's joy to ! Not that that's much to do, for 
I'd do it for twopence." 

The mournfulness of his spirits, and the gorgeous- 
ness of his appearance, might have made him ridic- 
ulous, but that his delicacy made him respectable. 
Little Dorrit learned from it what to do. 

" If you please, John Chivery," she returned, 
trembling, but in a quiet way, " since you are so con- 
siderate as to ask me whether you shall say any more 
— if you please, no." 

" Never, Miss Amy ? " 

"No, if you please. Never." 

" Oh, Lord ! '' gasped Young John. 

" But, perhaps, you will let me, instead, say some- 
thing to you. I want to say it earnestly, and with as 
plain a meaning as it is possible to express. When 
you think of us, John — 1 mean my brother and sis- 
ter, and me— don't think of us as being different 
from the rest ; for, whatever we once were (which I 
hardly know) we ceased to be long ago, and never 
can be any more. It wilt be much better for you, 
and much better for others, if you will do that, in- 
stead of what you are doing now." 

Young John dolefully protested that he would try 



320 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

to bear it in mind, and would be heartily glad to do 
anything she wished. 

"As to me," said Little Dorrit, "think as little of 
me as you can ; the less, the better. When you 
think of me at all, John, let it only be as the child 
you have seen grow up in the prison, with one set of 
duties always occupying her; as a weak, retired, 
contented, unprotected girl. I particularly want you 
to remember, that when I come outside the gate, I 
am unprotected and solitary." 

He would try to do anything she wished. But why 
did Miss Amy so much want him to remember that ? 

" Because," returned Little Dorrit, " I know I can 
then quite trust you not to forget to-day, and not to 
say any more to me. You are so generous that I 
know I can trust you for that ; and I do, and I always 
will. I am going to show you at once that I fully 
trust you. I like this place where we are speaking, 
better than any place I know; " her slight color had 
faded, but her lover thought he saw it coming back 
just then ; "and I may be often here. I know it is 
only necessary for me to tell you so, to be quite sure 
that you will never come here again in search of me. 
And I am — quite sure! " 

She might rely upon it, said Young John. He was 
a miserable wretch, but her word was more than a 
law for him. 

•• And good-by, John," said Little Dorrit. "And 



LITTLE DORRIT. 321 

I hope you will have a good wife one day, and be a 
happy man. I am sure you will deserve to be happy, 
and you will be, John." 

As she held out her hand to him with these words, 
the heart that was under the waistcoat of Sprigs — 
mere slop-work, if the truth must be known — swelled 
to the size of the heart of a gentleman ; and the 
poor common little fellow having no room to hold it, 
burst into tears. 

" O don't cry," said Little Dorrit piteously. " Don't, 
don't ! Good-by, John. God bless you ! " 

" Good-by, Miss Amy. Good-by! " 

And so he left her ; first observing that she sat 
down on the corner of a seat, and not only rested 
her little hand upon the rough wall, but laid her face 
against it too, as if her head were heavy, and her 
mind were sad. 

It was an affecting illustration of the fallacy of 
human projects, to behold her lover with the great 
hat pulled over his eyes, the velvet collar turned up 
as if it rained, the plum-colored coat buttoned to con- 
ceal the silken waistcoat of golden sprigs, and the 
little direction-post pointing inexorably home, creep- 
ing along by the worst back streets, and composing 
as he went the following new inscription for a tomb- 
stone in Saint George's Church-yard: 

" Here lies the mortal remains of JOHN Chivery, Never 

21 



322 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

anything worth mentioning, Who died about the end of the 
year one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six, Of a broken 
heart, Requesting with his last breath that the word Amy 
might be inscribed over his ashes, Which was accordingly di- 
rected to be done, By his afflicted Parents." 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 



323 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 



"p ICHARD SWIVELLER, being often left alone, 
began to find the time hang heavy on his 
hands. For the better preservation of his cheerful- 
ness therefore, and to prevent his faculties from rust- 
ing, he provided himself with a cribbage-board and 
pack of cards, and accustomed himself to play at 
cribbage with a dummy, for twenty, thirty, or some- 
times even fifty thousand pounds a side, besides many 
hazardous bets to a considerable amount. 

As these games were very silently conducted, not- 
withstanding the magnitude of the interests involved, 
Mr. Swiveller began to think that on those evenings 
when Mr. and Miss Brass were out (and they often 
went out now) he heard a sort of snorting or half- 
hard breathing sound in the direction of the door, 
which it occurred to him, after some reflecdon, must 
proceed from the small servant, who always had a 
cold from damp living. Looking intently that way 
one night, he plainly distinguished an eye gleaming 
and glistening at the keyhole ; and having now no 
doubt that his suspicions were correct, he stole softly 

325 



326 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

to the door, and pounced upon her before she was 
aware of his approach. 

" Oh ! I didn't mean any harm indeed, upon my 
word I didn't,'' cried the small servant, struggling 
like a much larger one. " It's so very dull down- 
stairs. Please don't tell upon me, please don't." 

" Tell upon you ! " said Dick. " Do you mean to 
say you were looking through the keyhole for com- 
pany ?" 

"Yes, upon me word I was," replied the small 
servant. 

" How long have you been cooling your eye 
there ?" said Dick. 

" Oh ever since you first began to play them cards, 
and long before,'' 

Vague recollections of several fantastic exercises 
with which he had refreshed himself after the fatigues 
of business, and to all of which, no doubt, the small 
servant was a party, rather disconcerted Mr. Swivel- 
ler ; but he was not very sensitive on such points, 
and recovered himself speedily. 

"Well, — come in "—he said, after a little con- 
sideration, " Here — sit down, and I'll teach you 
how to play." 

'' Oh ! I durstn't do it,'' rejoined the small servant ; 
"Miss Sally 'ud kill me, if she know'd I come -ap 
here." 

" Have you got a fire down-stairs? " said Dick. 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 327 

"A very little one," replied the small servant. 

" Miss Sally couldn't kill me if she know'd I went 
down there, so I'll come," said Richard, putting the 
cards into his pocket. " Why, how thin you are ! 
What do you mean by it ? '' 

" It ain't my fault." 

" Could you eat any bread and meat ? " said Dick, 
taking down his hat. '' Yes ? Ah ? I thought so. 
Did you ever taste beer ?'' 

" I had a sip of it once," said the small servant. 

•' Here's a state of things ! " cried Mr. Swiveller, 
raising his eyes to the ceiling. " She never tasted 
it — it can't be tasted in a sip ! Why, how old are 



you 



?" 



"I don't know." 

Mr. Swiveller opened his eyes very wide, and 
appeared thoughtful for a moment; then, bidding 
the child mind the door until he came back, vanished 
straight away. 

Presently, he returned, followed by the boy from 
the public-house, who bore in one hand a plate of 
bread and beef, and in the other a great pot, filled 
with some very fragrant compound, which sent forth a 
grateful steam, and was indeed choice purl, made after 
a particular recipe which Mr. Swiveller had imparted 
to the landlord, at a period when he was deep in his 
books and desirous to conciliate his friendship. Re- 
lieving the boy of his burden at the door and charg- 



328 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

ing his little companion to fasten it to prevent 
surprise, Mr, Swiveller followed her into the kitchen. 

*' There !" said Richard, putting the plate before 
her. " First of all clear that off, and then you'll see 
what's next." 

The small servant needed no second bidding, and 
the plate was soon empty. 

"Next,"' said Dick, handing the purl, "take a pull 
at that ; but moderate your transports, you know, for 
you're not used to it. Well, is it good ? *' 

" Oh ! isn't it ? " said the small servant. 

Mr. Swiveller appeared gratified beyond all ex- 
pression by this reply, and took a long draught him- 
self: steadfastly regarding his companion while he 
did so. These preliminaries disposed of, he applied 
himself to teaching her the game, which she soon 
learnt tolerably well, being both sharp-witted and 
cunning. 

" Now,'' said Mr. Swiveller, putting two sixpences 
into a saucer, and trimming the wretched candle, 
when the cards have been cut and dealt, " those are 
the stakes. If you win, you get 'em all. If I win, I 
get 'em. To make it seem more real and pleasant, 
I shall call you the Marchioness, do you hear?" 

The small servant nodded. 

" Then, marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, "fire 
away ! " 

The Marchioness, holding her cards very tight in 




Dickens. 



DICK SWIVELLER AND THE MARCHIONESS. 



n 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 329 

both hands, considered which to play, and Mr. 
Swivcller, assuming the gay and fashionable air 
which such society required, took another pull at the 
tankard, and waited for her lead. 

Mr. Swiveller and his partner played several rub- 
bers with varying success, until the loss of three six- 
pences, the gradual sinking of the purl, and the 
striking of ten o'clock, combined to render that gen- 
tleman mindful of the flight of time, and the expe- 
diency of withdrawing before Mr. Sampson and Miss 
Sally Brass returned. 

"With which object in view. Marchioness," said 
Mr. Swiveller gravely, "I shall ask your ladyship's 
permission to put the board in my pocket, and to re- 
tire from the presence when I have finished this 
tankard ; merely observing, Marchioness, that since 
life-like a river is flowing, I care not how fast it rolls 
on, ma'am, on, while such purl on the bank still is 
growing, and such eyes light the waves as they run. 
Marchioness, your health. You will excuse my 
wearing my hat, but the palace is damp, and the 
marble floor is — if I may be allowed the expression 
— sloppy." 

As a precaution against the latter inconvenience, 
Mr. Swiveller had been sitting for some time with his 
feet on the hob, in which attitude he now gave utter- 
ance to these apologetic observations, and slowly 
sipped the last choice drops of nectar. 



330 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair sister 
are (you tell me) at the play?'' said Mr. Swiveller, 
leaning his left arm heavily upon the table, and rais- 
ing his voice and his right leg after the manner of a 
theatrical bandit. 

The Marchioness nodded. 

'•Ha!" said Mr. Swiveller, with a portentious 
frown. " 'Tis well. Marchioness ! — but no matter. 
Some wine there. Ho! " He illustrated* these melo- 
dramatic morsels, by handing the tankard to himself 
with great humility, receiving it haughtily, drinking 
from it thirstily, and smacking his lips fiercely. 

The small servant who was not so well acquainted 
with theatrical conventionalities as Mr. Swiveller 
(having indeed never seen a play, or heard one 
spoken of, except by chance through chinks of doors 
and in other forbidden places), was rather alarmed 
by demonstrations so novel in their nature, and 
showed her concern so plainly in her looks, that Mr. 
Swiveller felt it necessary to discharge his brigand 
manner for one more suitable to private life, as he 
asked, 

" Do they often go where glory waits 'em and 
leave you here?" 

**0h, yes; I believe you they do,'' returned the 
small servant. " Miss Sally's such a one-er for that, 
she is.'' 

" Such a what ? '' said Dick. 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 33I 

"Such a one-er," returned the Marchioness. 

After a moment's reflection, Mr. Swiveller deter- 
mined to forego his responsible duty of setting her 
right, and to suffer her to talk on ; as it was evident 
that her tongue was loosened by the purl, and her 
opportunities for conversation were not so frequent 
as to render a momentary check of little conse- 
quence. 

"They sometimes go to see Mr. Quilp," said the 
small servant with a shrewd look ; " they go to a 
many places, bless you ! '' 

" Is Mr. Brass a wunner? " said Dick. 

"Not half what Miss Sally is, he isn't," replied 
the small servant, shaking her head. " Bless you, 
he'd never do anything without her." 

"Oh ! He wouldn't, wouldn't he ? " said Dick. 

" Miss Sally keeps him in such order," said the 
small servant ; " he always asks her advice, he does ; 
and he catches it sometimes. Bless you, you 
wouldn't believe how much he catches it." 

"I suppose," said Dick, "that they consult to- 
gether, a good deal, and talk about a great many 
people — about me for instance, sometimes, eh. Mar- 
chioness ?" 

The Marchioness nodded amazingly. 

" Complimentary ?" said Mr. Swiveller. 

The Marchioness changed the motion of her head, 
which had not yet left off nodding, and suddenly be- 



332 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

gan to shake it from side to side, with vehemence 
which threatened to dislocate her neck. 

"Humph!" Dick muttered. "Would it be any 
breach of confidence, Marchioness, to relate what 
they say of the humble individual who has now the 
honor, to ?" 

" Miss Sally says you're a funny chap," replied his 
friend. 

"Well, Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, "that's 
not uncomplimentary. Merriment, Marchioness, is 
not a bad or a degrading quality. Old King Cole 
was himself a merry old soul, if we may put any 
faith in the pages of history." 

" But she says," pursued his companion, " that 
you ain't to be trusted." 

" Why, really Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, 
thoughtfully ; " several ladies and gentlemen — not 
exactly professional persons, but tradespeople, ma'am, 
tradespeople — have made the same remark. The 
obscure citizen who keeps the hotel over the way, 
inchned strongly to that opinion to-night when I 
ordered him to prepare the banquet. It's a popular 
prejudice. Marchioness ; and yet I am sure I don't 
know why, for I have been trusted in my time to a 
considerable amount, and I can safely say that I never 
forsook my trust until it deserted me— never. Mr. 
Brass is of the same opinion, I suppose ? " 

His friend nodded again, with a cunning look 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 333 

which seemed to hint that Mr. Brass held stronger 
opinions on the subject than his sister ; and seeming 
to recollect herself, added imploringly, " But don't 
you ever tell upon me, or I shall be beat to death." 

"Marchioness, said Mr. Svviveller, rising, "the 
word of a gentleman is as good as his bond — some- 
times better, as in the present case, where his bond 
might prove but a doubtful sort of security. I am 
your friend, and I hope we shall play many more 
rubbers together in this same saloon. But Mar- 
chioness," added Richard, stopping in his way to the 
door, and wheeling slowly round upon the small ser- 
vant, who was following with the candle ; "it occurs 
to me that you must be in the constant habit of air- 
ing your eye at key-holes, to know all this.'' 

" I only wanted," replied the trembling Marchion- 
ess, " to know where the key of the safe was hid ; 
that was all ; and I wouldn't have taken much, if I 
had found it — only enough to squench my hunger." 

" You didn't find it then ? " said Dick. " But of 
course you didn't, or you'd be plumper. Good-night, 
Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if forever, then 
for ever fare thee well — and put up the chain, Mar- 
chioness, in case of accidents." 

With this parting injunction, Mr, Swiveller emerged 
from the house ; and feeling that he had by this time 
taken quite as much to drink as promised to be good 
for his constitution (purl being a rather strong and 



334 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 



heady compound), wisely resolved to partake him 
self to his lodgings, and to bed at once. Homeward 
he went therefore ; and his apartments (for he still 
retained the plural fiction) being at no great distance 
from the office, he was soon seated in his own bed- 
chamber, where, having pulled off one boot and for- 
gotten the other he fell into a deep cogitation. 

"This Marchioness/' said Mr. Swiveller, folding 
his arms, " is a very extraordinary person — sur- 
rounded by mysteries, ignorant of the taste of beer, 
unacquainted with her own name ( which is less re- 
markable,) and taking a limited view of society 
through the keyholes of doors — can these things be 
her destiny, or has some unknown person started an 
opposition to the decrees of fate ? It is a most in- 
scrutable and unmitigated staggerer !'* 

When his meditations had attained this satisfactory 
point, he became aware of his remaining boot, of 
which, with unimpaired solemnity he proceeded to 
divest himself; shaking his head with exceeding 
gravity all the time, and sighing deeply. 

Some men in his blighted position would have 
taken to drinking ; but as Mr. Swiveller had taken 
to that before, he only took to playing the flute, 
thinking after mature consideration that it was a 
good, sound, dismal occupation, not only in unison 
with his own sad thoughts, but calculated to awaken 
a fellow-feeling in the bosoms of his neighbors. In 



n 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 335 

pursuance of this resolution, he now drew a httle 
table to his bedside, and arranging the light and a 
small oblong music-box to the best advantage, took 
his flute from its box, and began to play most mourn- 
fully. 

The air was " Away with melancholy'' — a compo- 
sition, which, when it is played very slowly on the 
flute, in bed, with the further disadvantage of being 
performed by a gentleman but imperfectly ac- 
quainted with the instrument, who repeats one note 
a great many times before he can find the next, has 
not a lively effect. Yet for half the night, or more, 
Mr. Swiveller, lying sometimes upon his back with 
his eyes upon the ceiling, and sometimes half out of 
bed to correct himself by the book, played this un- 
happy tune over and over again ; never leaving off, 
save for a minute or two at a time to take breath and 
soliloquize about the Marchioness, and then be- 
ginning again with renewed vigor. It was not until 
he had quite exhausted his several subjects of medi- 
tation, and had breathed into the flute the whole 
sentiment of the purl down to its very dregs, and had 
nearly maddened the people of the house, and at 
both the next doors, and over the way — that he shut 
up the music-book, extinguished the candle, and 
finding himself greatly lightened and relieved in his 
mind, turned round and feel asleep. 



33^ MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

The lives of gentlemen devoted to such pleasures 
as Richard Swiveller, are extremely precarious. 
That very night, Mr. Richard was seized with an 
alarming illness, and in twenty-four hours was 
stricken with a raging fever. 

Tossing to and fro upon his hot, uneasy bed ; tor- 
mented by a fierce thirst which nothing could ap- 
pease ; unable to find, in any change of posture, a 
moment's peace or ease ; and rambling ever through 
deserts of thought where there was no resting-place, 
no sight or sound suggestive of refreshment or re- 
pose, nothing but dull eternal weariness, with no 
change but the restless shiftings of his miserable 
body, and the weary wandering of his mind, con- 
stant still to one ever-present anxiety— to a sense of 
something left undone, of some fearful obstacle to be 
surmounted, of some carking care that would not be 
driven away, and which haunted the distempered 
brain, now in this form, now in that, always shadowy 
and dim, but recognizable for the same phantom in 
eveiy shape it took ; darkening every vision like an 
evil conscience, and making slumber horrible — in 
these slow tortures of his dread disease, the unfortu- 
nate Richard lay wasting and consuming inch by 
inch, until, at last, when he seemed to fight and 
struggle to rise up, and to be held down by devils, he 
sank into a deep sleep, and dreamed no more. 

He awoke with a sensation of most blissful rest, 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 33/ 

better than sleep itself, he began gradually to remem- 
ber something of these sufferings, and to think what 
a longr nitjht it had been, and whether he had not 
been delirious twice or thrice. Happening, in the 
midst of these cogitations, to raise his hand, he was 
astonished to find how heavy it seemed, and yet how 
thin andHght it really was. Still, he felt indifferent and 
happy ; and having no curiosity to pursue the subject, 
remained in the same waking slumber until his at- 
tention was attracted by a cough. This made him 
doubt whether he had locked his door last night, and 
feel a little surprised at having a companion in the 
room. Still, he lacked energy to follow up this train 
of thought ; and unconscionsly fell, in a luxury of 
repose, to staring at some green stripes on the bed- 
furniture, and associating them strangely with patches 
of fresh turf, while the yellow ground between made 
gravel-walks, and so helped out a long prospective of 
trim gardens. 

He was rambUngin imagination on these terraces, 
and had quite lost himself among them indeed, when 
he heard the cough once more. The walks shrunk 
into stripes again at the sound, and raising himself a 
little in the bed, and holding the curtain open with 
one hand, he looked out. 

The same room certainly, and still by candlelight ; 
but with what unbounded astonishment did he see 
all those bottles, and basins, and articles of linen 



338 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

airing by the fire, and such-like furniture of a sick 
chamber — all very clean and neat, but all quite dif- 
ferent from anything he had left there, when he went 
to bed ! The atmosphere, too,- filled with a cool 
smell of herbs and vinegar ; the floor newly sprink- 
led ; the — the what ? The Marchioness ? 

Yes ; playing cribbage with herself at the table. 
There she sat, intent upon her game, coughing now 
and then in a subdued manner as if she feared to 
disturb him — shuffling the cards, cutting, dealing, 
playing, counting, pegging — going through all the 
mysteries of cribbage as if she had been in full prac- 
tice from her cradle ! 

Mr. Swiveller contemplated these things for a short 
time, and suffering the curtain to fall into its former 
position, laid his head on the pillow again. 

" I'm dreaming,'' thought Richard, " that's clear. 
When I went to bed my hands were not made of 
egg-shells ; and now I can almost see through 'em. If 
this is not a dream, I have woke up, by mistake, in 
an Arabian Night, instead of a London one. But I 
have no doubt I'm asleep. Not in the least." 

Here the small servant had another cough. 

•' Very remarkable ! " thought Mr. Swiveller. " I 
never dreamt such a real cough as that before. I 
don't know, indeed, that I ever dreamt either a cough 
or sneeze. Perhaps it's part of the philosophy of 
dreams that one never does. There's another — and 
another — I say ! — I'm dreaming rather fast ! " 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 339 

For the purpose of testing his real condition, Mr. 
Swiveller, after some reflection, pinched himself in 
the arm. 

"Queerer still !" he thought. "I came to bed 
rather plump than otherwise, and now there's noth- 
ing to lay hold of. I'll take another survey." 

The result of this additional inspection was, to 
convince Mr. Swiveller that the objects by which he 
was surrounded were real, and that he saw them, 
beyond all question, with his waking eyes. 

" It's an Arabian Night; that's what it is," said 
Richard. " I'm in Damascus or Grand Cairo. The 
Marchioness is a Genie, and having had a wager 
with another Genie about who is the handsomest 
young man alive, and the worthiest to be the husband 
of the Princess of China, has brought me away, room 
and all, to compare us together. Perhaps," said Mr. 
Swiveller, turning languidly around on his pillow, 
and looking on that side of the bed which was next 
the wall, "the Princesss may be still — No, she's 
gone." 

Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, as, 
even taking it to be the correct one, it still involved 
a little mystery and doubt, Mr. Swiveller raised the 
curtain, determined to take the first favorable oppor- 
tunity of addressing his companion. An occasion 
soon presented itself. The Marchioness dealt, turned 
up a knave, and omitted to take the usual advan- 



340 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

tage ; upon which Mr. Swiveller called out as loud 
as he could : " Two for his heels ! " 

The Marchioness jumped up quickly, and clapped 
her hands. " Arabian Night, certainly," thought 
Mr. Swiveller; "they always clap their hands in- 
stead of ringing the bell. Now, for the two thou- 
sand black slaves, with jars of jewels on their 
heads!" 

It appeared, however, that she had only clapped 
her hands for joy; as directly afterwards she began 
to laugh, and then to cry ; declaring, not in choice 
Arabic, but in familiar English, that she was " so glad 
she didn't know what to do." 

" Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, thoughtfully, 
" be pleased to draw nearer. First of all, will you 
have the goodness to inform me where I shall find 
my voice ; and secondly, what has become of my 
flesh.?" 

The Marchioness only shook her head mournfully 
and cried again ; whereupon Mr. Swiveller (being 
very weak) felt his own eyes affected likewise. 

" I begin to infer, from your manner, and these 
appearances, Marchioness," said Richard, after a 
pause, and smiling with a trembling lip, "that I have 
been ill." 

"You just have!" replied the small servant, wip- 
ing her eyes. "And haven't you been a talking 
nonsense!" 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 34 1 

"Oh!" said Dick. *' Very ill, Marchioness, have 
I been?" 

"Dead, all but," replied the small servant. "I 
never thought you'd get better. Thank Heaven you 
have !" 

Mr. Swiveller was silent for a long while. By and 
by, he began to talk again ; inquiring how long he 
had been there. 

" Three weeks to-morrow," replied the small ser- 
vant. ' 

"Three what?" said Dick. 

"Weeks,'' returned the Marchioness emphatically; 
"three long, slow, weeks." 

The bare thought of having been in such extrem- 
ity, caused Richard to fall into another silence, and 
to lie flat down again, at his full length. The Mar- 
chioness, having arranged the bed-clothes more 
comfortably, and felt that his hands and forehead 
were quite cool — a discovery that filled her with de- 
light — cried a little more, and then applied herself 
to getting tea ready, and making some thin dry 
toast. 

While she was thus engaged, Mr. Swiveller looked 
on with a grateful heart, very much astonished to see 
how thoroughly at home she made herself, and at- 
tributing this attention, in its origin, to Sally Brass, 
whom, in his own mind, he could not thank enough. 
When the Marchioness had finished her toasting, 



342 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

she spread a clean cloth on a tray, and brought him 
some crisp slices and a great basin of weak tea, with 
which ( she said ) the doctor had left word he might 
refresh himself when he awoke. She propped him 
up with pillows, if not as skillfully as if she had been ' 
a professional nurse all her life, at least as tenderly ; 
and looked on with unutterable satisfaction while the 
patient — stopping every now and then to shake her 
by the hand — took his poor meal with an appetite 
and relish, which the greatest dainties of the* earth, 
under any other circumstances, would have failed to 
provoke. Having cleared away, and disposed every- 
thing comfortably about him again, she sat down at 
the table to take her own tea. 

"Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, "how is 
Sally ?" 

The small servant screwed her face into an ex- 
pression of the very utmost entanglement of slyness 
and shook her head. 

" What, haven't you seen her lately?" said Dick. 

" Seen her !'' cried the small servant. " Bless you, 
I've run away !" 

Mr, Swiveller immediately laid himself down again 
quite flat, and so he remained for about five minutes. 
By slow degrees he resumed his sitting posture after 
that lapse of time, and inquired : 

" And where do you live. Marchioness ?" 

" Live !" cried the small servant. " Here !'' 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 343 

" Oh !" said Mr. Swiveller. 

And with that he fell down flat again, as suddenly 
as if he had been shot. Thus he remained, motion- 
less and bereft of speech, until she had finished her 
meal, put everything in its place, and swept the 
hearth ; when he motioned her to bring a chair to the 
bed-side, and, being propped up again, opened a 
farther conversation. 

" And so," said Dick, " you have run away ?" 

" Yes," said the Marchioness, "and they've been 
a tizing of me." 

" Been — I beg your pardon,'' said Dick — " what 
have they been doing?'' 

" Been a tizing of me — tizing you know — in the 
newspapers,'' rejoined the Marchioness. 

"Ay, ay,'' said Dick, " advertising ?" 

The small servant nodded, and winked. Her eyes 
were so red with waking and crying, that the Tragic 
Muse might have winked with greater consistency. 
And so Dick felt. 

" Tell me,'' said he, " how it was that you thought 
of coming here.'' 

" Why, you see," returned the Marchioness, "when 
you was gone, I hadn't any friend at all, because the 
lodger he never come back, and I didn't know where 
either him or you was to be found, you know. But 
one morning, when I was " 

"Was near a key-hole?'' suggested Mr. Swiveller, 
observing that she faltered. 



344 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

"Well then,'' said the small servant, nodding; 
"when I was near the office key-hole — as you see 
me through, you know — I heard somebody saying 
that she lived here, and was the lady whose house 
you lodged at, and that you was took very bad, and 
wouldn't nobody come and take care of you. Mr. 
Brass, he says, ' It's no business of mine,' he says; 
and Miss Sally, she says, 'He's a funny chap, but it's 
no business of mine ;' and the lady went away, and 
slammed the door to, when she went out, I can tell 
you. So I run away that night, and come here, and 
told 'em you was my brother, and they believed me, 
and I've been here ever since." 

" This poor little Marchioness has been wearing 
herself to death !" cried Dick. 

" No I haven't," she returned, " not a bit of it. 
Don't you mind about me. I like sitting up, and 
I've often had a sleep, bless you, in one of them chairs. 
But if you could have seen how you tried to jump 
out o' winder, and "if you could have heard how you 
used to keep on singing and making speeches, you 
wouldn't have believed it — I'm so glad you're better, 
Mr. Liverer." 

*' Liverer indeed !" said Dick thoughtfully. '' It's 
well I am a liverer. I strongly suspect I should have 
died. Marchioness, but for you." 

At this point, Mr. Swiveller took the small ser- 
vant's hand in his, again, and being as we have 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 345 

seen, but poorly, might in struggling to express his 
thanks have made his eyes as red as hers, but that 
she quickly changed the theme by making him lie 
down, and urging him to keep very quiet. 

" The doctor," she told him, " said you was to be 
kept quite still, and there was to be no noise or noth- 
ing. Now, take a rest, and then M^e'll talk again. I'll 
sit by you, you know. If you shut your eyes, perhaps 
you'll go to sleep. You'll be all the better for it, if 
you do.'* 

The Marchioness, in saying these words, brought 
a little table to the bed side, took her seat at it, and 
began to work away at the concoction of some cool- 
ing drink, with the address of a score of chemists. 
Richard Swiveller, being indeed fatigued, fell into a 
slumber, and waking in about half an hour, inquired 
what time it was. 

" Just gone half after six,'' replied his small friend, 
helping him to sit up again. 

" Marchioness,'* said Mr. Swiveller, plucking off 
his night-cap and flinging it to the other end of the 
room; " if you'll do me the favor to retire for a few 
minutes and see what sort of a night it is, I'll get 
up." 

"You mustn't think of such a thing," cried his 
nurse. 

" I must indeed," said the patient, looking around 
the room. '* Whereabouts are my clothes ? " 



346 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

"Oh, rm so glad — you haven't got any," replied 
Marchioness. 

"Ma'am!" said Mr. Swiveller, in great astonish- 
ment. 

*' I've been obliged to sell them, every one, to get 
the things that was ordered for you. But don't take 
on about that," urged the Marchioness, as Dick fell 
back upon his pillow. "You're too weak to stand, 
indeed.*' 

" I suppose," said Dick, " there's nothing left — 
not so much as a waistcoat even ?" 

"No, nothing." 

" It's embarrassing,'' said Mr. Swiveller, *' in case 
of fire — even an umbrella would be something — but 
you did quite right, dear Marchioness. I should 
have died without you ! " 



Mr. Swiveller, recovering very slowly from his 
illness, bought for the Marchioness a handsome stock 
of clothes, and put her to school forthwith. After 
casting about for some time for a name that should 
be worthy of her, he decided in favor of Sophronia 
Sphynx, as being euphonious and genteel, and 
furthermore indicative of mystery. Under this title 
the Marchioness repaired, in tears, to the school of 
his selection, from which, as she soon distanced all 
competitors, she was removed before the lap3e of 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 347 

many quarters to one of a higher grade. It is but 
bare justice to Mr. Swiveller to say, that, although 
the expenses of her education kept him in straitened 
circumstances for half dozen years, he never slack- 
ened in his zeal, and always held himself sufficiently 
repaid by the accounts he heard (with great gravity) 
of her advancement, on his monthly visits to the 
governess, who looked upon him as a literary gentle- 
man of eccentric habits, and of a most prodigious 
talent in quotation. 

In a word, Mr. Swiveller kept the Marchioness at 
this establishment until she was, at a moderate guess, 
full nineteen years of age — good-looking, clever, and 
good-humored ; when he began to consider seriously 
what was to be done next. On one of his periodical 
visits, while he was revolving this question in his 
mind, the Marchioness came down to him, alone, 
looking more smiling and more fresh than ever. 
Then, it occurred to him, but not for the first time, 
that if she would marry him, how comfortable they 
might be ! So Richard asked her ; whatever she 
said, it wasn't No ; and they were married in good 
earnest that day week. Which gave Mr. Swiveller 
frequent occasion to remark at divers subsequent 
periods that there had been a young lady saving up 
for him after all. 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 



349 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 



A RIDE of two hundred and odd miles in severe 
weather is one of the best softeners of a hard 
bed that ingenuity can devise. Perhaps it is even a 
sweetener of dreams, for those which hovered over 
the rough couch of Nicholas, and whispered their 
airy nothings in his ear, were of an agreeable and 
happy kind. He was making his fortune very fast 
indeed, when the faint glimmer of an expiring candle 
shone before his eyes, and a voice he had no diffi- 
culty in recognizing as part and parcel of Mr. Squeers, 
admonished him that it was time to rise. 

"Past seven, Nickleby," said Mr. Squeers. 

"Has morning come already?" asked Nicholas, 
sitting up in bed. 

"Ah! that has it," rephed Squeers, "and ready 
iced too. Now, Nickleby, come ; tumble up, will 
you r 

Nicholas needed no further admonition, but " tum- 
bled up " at once, and proceeded to dress himself by 
the light of the taper which Mr. Squeers carried in 
his hand. 

351 



352 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" Here's a pretty go," said that gentleman; " the 
pump's froze." 

"Indeed!" said Nicholas, not much interested in 
the intelligence. 

"Yes,'' replied Squeers. ''You can't wash your- 
self this morning." 

" Not wash myself! " exclaimed Nicholas. 

"No, not a bit of it," rejoined Squeers, tartly. 
*' So you must be content with giving yourself a dry 
polish till we break the ice in the well, and get a 
bucketful out for the boys. Don't stand staring at 
me, but look sharp, will you ? '' 

Offering no further observation, Nicholas huddled 
on his clothes. Squeers, meanwhile, opened the 
shutters and blew the candle out ; when the voice of 
his amiable consort was heard in the passage, de- 
manding admittance. 

" Come in, my love," said Squeers. 

Mrs. Squeers came in, still habited in the primitive 
night-jacket which had displayed the symmetry of 
her figure on the previous night, and further orna- 
mented with a beaver bonnet of some antiquity, 
which she wore, with much ease and lightness, on 
the top of the nightcap before mentioned. 

" Drat the things ! " said the lady, opening the 
cupboard; " I can't find the school-spoon anywhere." 

" Never mind it, my dear," observed Squeers, in a 
soothing manner ; " it's of no consequence.'* 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 353 

"No consequence! Why, how you talk!" re- 
torted Mrs. Squeers, sharply; "isn't it brimstone 
morning ? " 

"I forgot, my dear," rejoined Squeers; " yes, it 
certainly is. We purify the boys' blood now and 
then, Nickleby." 

" Purify fiddlesticks' ends,'' said his lady. " Don't 
think, young man, that we go to the expense of 
flower of brimstone and molasses, just to purify 
them ; because if you think we carry on the business 
in that way, you'll find yourself mistaken, and so I 
tell you plainly." 

" My dear," said Squeers, frowning. " Hem ! " 

•' Oh ! nonsense," rejoined Mrs. Squeers, " If the 
young man comes to be a teacher here, let him un- 
derstand at once that we don't want any foolery 
about the boys. They have the brimstone and 
treacle, partly because if they hadn't something or 
other in the way of medicine they'd be always ailing 
and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it 
spoils their appetites and comes cheaper than break- 
fast and dinner. So it does them good and us good 
at the same time, and that's fair enough, I'm sure," 

Having given this explanation, Mrs. Squeers put 
her hand into the closet, and instituted a stricter 
search after the spoon, in which Mr. Squeers as- 
sisted. 

A few words passed between them while they were 
23 



354 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

thus engaged, but as their voices were partially stifled 
by the cupboard, all that Nicholas could distinguish 
was that Mr. Squeers said what Mrs. Squeers had 
said was injudicious, and that Mrs. Squeers said what 
Mr. Squeers said was " stuff." 

A vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, 
and it proving fruitless, Smike was called in, and 
pushed by Mrs. Squeers, and boxed by Mr. Squeers ; 
which course of treatment brightening his intellects, 
enabled him to suggest that possibly Mrs. Squeers 
might have the spoon in her pocket, as indeed turned 
out to be the case. As Mrs. Squeers had previously 
protested, however, that she was quite certain she had 
not got it, Smike received another box on the ear for 
presuming to contradict his mistress, together with a 
promise of a sound thrashing if he were not more 
respectful in future ; so that he took nothing very ad- 
vantageous by his motion. 

"A most invaluable woman, that, Nickleby,'' said 
Squeers, when his consort had hurried away, pushing 
the drudge before her. 

"Indeed, sir! " observed Nicholas. 

"I don't know her equal," said Squeers; "I do 
not know her equal. That woman, Nickleby, is 
always the same — always the same bustling, lively, 
active, saving creetur that you see her now," 

Nicholas sighed involuntarily at the thought of the 
agreeable domestic prospect thus opened to him ; 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 355 

but Squeers was, fortunately, too much occupied 
with his own reflections to perceive it. 

'' It's my way to say, when I am up in London," 
continued Squeers, "that to them boys she is a 
mother. But she is more than a mother to them : 
ten times more. She does things for them boys, 
Nickleby, that I don't beheve half the mothers going 
would do for their own sons." 

" I should think they would not, sir," answered 
Nicholas. 

Now, the fact was, that both Mr. and Mrs. Squeers 
viewed the boys in the light of their proper and 
natural enemies ; or, in other words, they held and 
considered that their business and profession was to 
get as much from every boy as could be screwed out 
of him. On this point they were both agreed and 
behaved in unison accordingly. The only difference 
between them was, that Mrs. Squeers waged war 
against the enemy openly and fearlessly, and that 
Squeers covered his rascality, even at home, with a 
spice of his habitual deceit ; as if he really had a 
notion of some day or other being able to take him- 
self in, and persuade his own mind that he was a 
very good fellow. 

"But come," said Squeers, interrupting the pro- 
giess of some thoughts to this effect in the mind of 
his usher, "let's go into the school-room ; and lend 
me a hand with my school-coat, will you ?" 



356 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old fus- 
tian shooting-jacket, which he took down from a peg 
in the passage ; and Squeers, arming himself with 
his cane, led the way across a yard, to a door in the 
rear of the house. 

'' There," said the schoolmaster, as they stepped 
in together, " this is our shop, Nickleby ! " 

It was such a crowded scene, and there were so 
many objects to attract attention, that at first Nicho- 
las stared about him, really without seeing anything 
at all. By degrees, however, the place resolved 
itself into a bare and dirty room, with a couple of 
windows, whereof a tenth part might be of glass, the 
remainder being stopped up with old copybooks and 
paper. There were a couple of long old rickety 
desks, cut and notched, and inked, and damaged in 
every possible way ; two or three forms ; a detached 
desk for Squeers, and another for his assistant. The 
ceihng was supported, like that of a barn, by cross- 
beams and rafters ; and the walls were so stained 
and discolored, that it was impossible to tell whether 
they had ever been touched with paint or whitewash. 

But the pupils — the young noblemen ! How the 
last faint traces of hope, the remotest glimmering of 
any good to be derived from his efforts in this den^ 
faded from the mind of Nicholas as he looked in dis- 
may around ! Pale and haggard faces, lank and 
bony figures, children with the countenances of old 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 357 

men, deformities with irons upon their Hmbs, boys 
of stunted growth, and others whose long meagre 
legs would hardly bear their stooping bodies, all 
crowded on the view together ; there were the bleared 
eye, the hare-lip, the crooked foot, and every ugli- 
ness or distortion that told of unnatural aversion 
conceived by parents for their offspring, or of young 
lives which, from the earliest dawn of infancy, had 
been one horrible endurance of cruelty and neglect. 
There were little faces which should have been 
handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged 
suffering ; there was childhood with the light of its 
eye quenched, its beauty gone, and its helplessness 
alone remaining ; there were vicious-faced boys, 
brooding, with leaden eyes, like malefactors in a jail ; 
and there were young creatures on whom the sins of 
their frail parents had descended, weeping even for 
the mercenary nurses they had known, and lonesome 
even in their loneliness. With every kindly sym- 
pathy and affection blasted in its birth, with every 
young and healthy feeling flogged and starved down, 
with every revengeful passion that can fester in 
swollen hearts, eating its evil way to their core in 
silence, what an incipient Hell was breeding here ! 

And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its gro- 
tesque features, which, in a less interested observer 
than Nicholas, might have provoked a smile. Mrs. 
Squeers stood at one of the desks^ presiding over an 



358 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

immense basin of brimstone and treacle, of which 
dehcious compound she administered a large install- 
ment to each boy in succession : using for the pur- 
pose a common wooden spoon, which might have 
been originally manufactured for some gigantic top, 
and which widened every young gentleman's mouth 
considerably ; they being all obliged, under heavy 
corporal penaldes, to take in the whole of the bowl 
at a gasp. In another corner, huddled together for 
companionship, were the little boys who had arrived 
on the preceding night, three of them in very large 
leather breeches, and two in old trousers, a some- 
what tighter fit than drawers are usually worn ; at no 
great distance from these w^as seated a juvenile son 
and heir of Mr. Squeers — a striking likeness of his 
father — kicking with great vigor under the hands of 
Smike, who was fitting upon him a pair of new boots 
that bore almost suspicious resemblance to those 
which the least of the little boys had worn on the 
way down — as the httle boy himself seemed to think, 
for he was regarding the appropriation with a look of 
most rueful amazement. Besides these, there was a 
long row of boys waiting, with countenances of no 
pleasant anticipation, to be treacled ; and another 
file, who had just escaped from the infliction, making 
a variety of wry mouths, indicative of anything but 
satisfaction. The whole were attired in such motley, 
ill-sorted, extraordinary garments, as would have 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 359 

been irresistibly ridiculous, but for the foul appear- 
ance of dirt, disorder and disease with which they 
were associated. 

" Now," said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap 
with his cane, which made half the little boys 
nearly jump out of their boots, "is that physicking 
over?" • 

" Just over/' said Mrs, Squeers, choking the last 
boy in her hurry, and tapping the crown of his head 
with the wooden spoon to restore him. " Here, you 
Smike ; take this away now. Look sharp !'* 

Smike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs^ 
Squeers, having called up a little boy with a curly 
head and wiped her hands upon it, hurried out after 
him into a species of wash-house, where there was a 
small fire and a large kettle, together with a number 
of little wooden bowls which were arranged upon a 
board. 

Into these bowls, Mrs. Squeers, assisted by the 
hungry servant, poured a brown composition, which 
looked like diluted pincushions without the covers, 
and was called porridge. A minute wedge of brown 
bread was inserted in each bowk and when they had 
eaten the porridge by means of the bread, the boys 
ate the bread itself, and had finished their breakfast, 
whereupon Mr. Squeers said, in a solemn voice- 
" For what we have received, may the Lord make 
us truly thankful ! " — and went away to his own. 



360 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of 
porridge, for much the same reason which induces 
some savages to swallow earth — lest they should be 
inconveniently hungry when there is nothing to eat. 
Having further disposed of a slice of bread and but- 
ter, allotted to him in virtue of his office, he sat him- 
self dbwn to wait for school time. 

He could not but observe how silent and sad the 
boys all seemed to be. There was none of the noise 
and clamor of a school-room ; none of its boisterous 
play or hearty mirth. The children sat crouching 
and shivering together, and seemed to lack the spirit 
to move about. The only pupil who evinced the 
slightest tendency toward locomotion or playfulness 
was Master Squeers, and as his chief amusement was 
to tread upon the other boys' toes, in his new boots, 
his flow of spirits was rather disagreeable than other- 
wise. 

After some half-hour's delay, Mr. Squeers reap- 
peared, and the boys took their places and their 
books, of which latter commodity the average might 
be about one to eight learners. A few minutes hav- 
ing elapsed, during which Mr. Squeers looked very 
profound, as if he had a perfect apprehension of 
what was inside all the books, and could say every 
word of their contents by heart if he only chose to 
take the trouble, that gentleman called up the first 
class. 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 36 1 

Obedient to this summons, there ranged them- 
selves in front of the school-master's desk half-a- 
dozen scarecrows, out at knees and elbows, one of 
whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath his 
learned eye. 

•' This is the first-class in English spelling and 
philosophy, Nickleby," said Squeers, beckoning 
Nicholas to stand beside him. 

" We'll get up a Latin one, and hand that over to 
you. Now, then, where's the first boy ?" 

" Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlor win- 
dow," said the temporary head of the philosophical 
class. 

" So he is, to be sure." rejoined Squeers. " We go 
upon the practical mode of teaching, Nickleby ; the 
regular education system. C-1-e-a-n, clean, verb 
active, to make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, 
der, winder, a casement. When the boy knows this 
out of book, he goes and does it. It's just the same 
principle as the use of the globes. Where's the sec- 
ond boy ?" 

" Please, sir, he's weeding the garden," replied a 
small voice. 

" To be sure,'' said Squeers, by no means discon- 
certed. "So he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, 
n-e-y, ney, bottinney, noun substantive, a knowledge 
of plants. . When he has learned that bottinney 
means a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 



362 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

'em. That's our system, Nicldeby; what do you 
think of it ?" 

" It's a very useful one, at any rate," answered 
Nicholas. 

" I believe you," rejoined Squeers, not remarking 
the emphasis of his usher. " Third boy, what's a 
horse ?" 

" A beast, sir/' replied the boy. 

"So it is," said Squeers. "Ain't it, Nickleby ?" 

" I believe there is no doubt of that, sir," answered 
Nicholas. 

"Of course there isn't," said Squeers. "A horse 
is a quadruped, and quadruped's Latin for beast, as 
everybody that's gone through the grammar knows, 
or else where's the use of having grammars at all .?" 

" Where indeed ?" said Nicholas, abstractedly. 

"As you're perfect in that," resumed Squeers, 
turning to the boy, " go and look after my horse, and 
rub him down well, or I'll rub you down. The rest 
of the class go and draw water up, till somebody 
tells you to leave off, for it's washing-day to-morrow, 
and they want the copper filled." 

So saying, he dismissed the first class to their ex- 
periments in practical philosophy, and eyed Nicholas 
with a look, half cunning and half doubtful, as if he 
were not altogether certain what he might think of 
him by this time. 

"That's the way we do it, Nickleby," he said, 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 363 

after a pause. Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a 
manner that was scarcely perceptible, and said he 
saw it was. 

"And a very good way it is, too," said Squeers. 
" Now, just take them fourteen little boys and hear 
them some reading, because, you know, you must 
begin to be useful. Idling about here won't do.' ' 

Mr, Squeers said this, as if it suddenly occurred to 
him either that he must not say too much to his as- 
sistant, or that his assistant did not say enough to 
him in the praise of the establishment. The chil- 
dren were arranged in a semi-circle round their new 
master, and he was soon listening to their dull, 
drawling, hesitating recital of those stories of engross- 
ing interest which are to be found in the more an- 
tiquated spelling-books. 

In this exciting occupation, the morning lagged 
heavily on. At one o'clock, the boys, having pre- 
viously had their appetites taken away by stirabout 
and potatoes, sat down in the kitchen to some hard 
salt beef, of which Nicholas was graciously permit- 
ted to take his portion to his own sohtary desk, to 
eat it there in peace. After this, there was another 
hour of crouching in the school-room and shivering 
with cold, and then school began again. 

It was Mr. Squeers* custom to call the boys to- 
gether, and make a sort of report, after every half 
yearly visit to the metropolis, regarding the relations 



364 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

and friends he had seen, the news he had heard, the 
letters he had brought down, the bills which had 
been paid, the accounts which had been left unpaid, 
and so forth. This solemn proceeding always took 
place in the afternoon of the day succeeding his re- 
turn ; perhaps, because the boys acquired strength of 
mind from the suspense of the morning, or possibly, 
because Mr. Squeers himself acquired greater stern- 
ness and inflexibihty from certain warm potations in 
which he was wont to indulge after his early dinner. 
Be this as it may, the boys were recalled from house 
window, garden, stable, and cow-yard, and the 
school were assembled in full conclave, when Mr. 
Squeers, with a small bundle of papers in his hand, 
and Mrs. S. following with a pair of canes, entered 
the room and proclaimed silence. 

"Let any boy speak a word without leave," said 
Mr. Squeers, mildly, " and I'll take the skin off his 
back." 

This special proclamation had the desired effect, 
and a death-like silence immediately prevailed, in 
the midst of which Mr. Squeers went on to say : 

" Boys, I have been to London, and have returned 
to my family and you, as strong and well as ever.'* 

According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave 
three feeble cheers at this refreshing intelligence. 
Such cheers ! Sign of extra strength with the chill 
on. 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 365 

" I have seen the parents of some boys," contin- 
ued Squeers, turning- over his papers, " and they're 
so glad to hear how their sons are getting on, that 
there's no prospect at all of their going away, which 
of cou.se is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon, for 
all parties." 

Two or three hands went to two or three eyes 
when Squeers said this, but the greater part of the 
young gentlemen having no particular parents to 
speak of, were wholly uninterested in the thing one 
way or other. 

" I have had disappointments to contend against," 
said Squeers, looking very grim ; " Bolder's father 
was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?'' 

" Here he is, please sir," rejoined twenty officious 
voices. Boys are very like men to be sure. 

" Come here. Bolder," said Squeers. 

An unhealthy looking boy, with warts all over his 
hands, stepped from his place to the master's desk, 
and raised his eyes imploringly to Squeers' face ; his 
own, quite white from the rapid beating of his heart. 

" Bolder," said Squeers, speaking very slowly, for 
he was considering, as the saying goes, where to 
have him. " Bolder, if your father thinks that be- 
cause — why, what's this, sir?" 

As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by 
the cuff of his jacket, and surveyed it with an edify- 
ing aspect of horror and disgust. 



366 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

''What do you call this, sir?" demanded the 
schoolmaster, administering a cut with the cane to 
expedite the reply. 

" I can't help it, indeed, sir," rejoined the boy, 
crying. " They will come ; it's the dirty work, I 
think, sir — at least I don't know what it is, sir, but 
it's not my fault.'' 

'' Bolder," said Squeers, tucking up his wristbands, 
and moistening the palm of his right hand to get a 
good grip of the cane, "you are an incorrigible young 
scoundrel, and as the last thrashing did you no good, 
we must see what another will do toward beating it 
out of you.'' 

With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry 
for mercy, Mr. Squeers fell upon the boy and caned 
him soundly ; not leaving off indeed, until his arm 
was tired out. 

"There," said Squeers. when he had quite done; 
" rub away as hard as you like, you wont rub that 
off in a hurry. Oh ! you won't hold that noise, won't 
you ? Put him out, Smike.'' 

The drudge knew better, from long experience, 
than to hesitate about obeying, so he bundled the 
victim out by a side door, and Mr. Squeers perched 
himself again on his own stool, supported by Mrs. 
Squeers, who occupied another by his side. 

" Now let us see," said Squeers. "A letter for 
Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey." 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 36/ 

Another boy stood up, and eyed the letter very 
hard while Squeers made a mental abstract of the 
same. 

" Oh ! " said Squeers ; " Cobbey's grandmother is 
dead, and his uncle John has took to drinking, which 
is all the news his sister sends, except eighteen pence, 
which will just pay for that broken square of glass. 
Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you take the money ?'' 

The worthy lady pocketed the eighteen pence with 
a most business-like air, and Squeers passed on to 
the next boy, as cooly as possible. 

" Gray marsh,'' said Squeers, "he's the next. 
Stand up, Graymarsh." 

Another boy stood up, and the schoolmaster 
looked over the letter as before. 

'' Graymarsh's maternal aunt," said Squeers, when 
he had possessed himself of the contents, " is very 
glad to hear he's so well and happy, and sends her 
respectful compliments to Mrs. Squeers, and thinks 
she must be an angel. She likewise thinks Mr. 
Squeers is too good for this world ; but hopes he may 
long be spared to carry on the business. Would 
have sent the two pair of stockings as desired, but is 
short of money, so forwards a tract instead, and 
hopes Gray marsh will put his trust in Providence. 
Hopes, above all, that he will study in everything to 
please Mr. and Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them 
as his only friends ; and that he will love Master 



368 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Squeers ; and not object to sleeping five in a bed, 
which no Christian should. Ah ! '' said Squeers, fold- 
ing it up, " a dehghtful letter. Very affecting indeed." 

It was affecting in one sense, for Graymarsh's ma- 
ternal aunt was strongly supposed, by her more inti- 
mate friends, to be no other than his maternal parent • 
Squeers, however, without alluding to this part of the 
story (which would have sounded immoral before 
boys) proceeded with the business by calhng out 
"Mobbs," whereupon another boy rose, and Gray- 
marsh resumed his seat. 

" Mobbs' m other-in-law," said Squeers, " took to 
bed on hearing that he wouldn't eat fat, and has been 
very ill ever since. She wishes to know by an early 
post, where he expects to go to if he quarrels with his 
vittles ; and with what feelings he could turn up his 
nose at the cow's liver broth, after his good master 
had asked a blessing on it. This was told her in the 
London newspapers — not by Mr. Squeers, for he is 
too kind and too good to set anybody against any- 
body — and it has vexed her so much, Mobbs can't 
think. She is sorry to find he is so discontented, 
which is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers 
will flog him into a happier state of mind ; with this 
view, she has also stopped his half penny a week 
pocket money, and given a double-bladed knife with 
a corkscrew in it to the Missionaries, which she had 
bought on purpose for him.'' 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 369 

"A sulky state of feeling," said Squeers, after a 
terrible pause, during which he had moistened the 
palm of his right hand again, "won't do. Cheerful- 
ness and contentment must be kept up. Mobbs, 
come to me! " 

Mobbs moved slowly toward the desk, rubbing his 
eyes in anticipation of good cause for doing so ; and 
he soon afterward retired by the side door, with as 
good cause as a boy need have. 

Mr. Squeers then proceeded to open a miscellan- 
eous collection of letters ; some inclosing money, 
which Mrs. Squeers " took care of ; " and others re- 
ferring to small articles of apparel, as caps and so 
forth, all cf which the same lady stated to be too 
large, or too small, and calculated for nobody but 
young Squeers, who would appear indeed to have 
had most accommodating limbs, since everything 
that came into the school fitted him to a nicety. His 
head, in particular, must have been singularly elas- 
tic, for hats and caps of all dimensions were ahke to 
him. 

The business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons 
were performed, and Squeers retired to his fireside, 
leaving Nicholas to take care of the boys in the 
Schoolroom, which was very cold, and where a meal 
of bread and cheese was served out shortly after 
dark. 

There was a small stove at that corner of the room 
24 



"^yO MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

which was nearest to the master's desk, and by it 
Nicholas sat down, so depressed and self-degraded 
by the consciousness of his position, that if death 
could have come upon him at that time, he would 
have been almost happy to meet it. The cruelty of 
which he had been an unwilling witness, the coarse 
and ruffianly behavior of Sqneers, even in his best 
moods, the filthy place, the sights and sounds about 
him, all contributed to this state of feeling ; but when 
he recollected that, being there as an assistant, he 
actually seemed — no matter what unhappy train oV 
circumstances had. brought him to that pass — to be 
the aider and abettor of a system which filled him 
with honest disgust, and indignation, he loathed him- 
self, and felt, for the moment, as though the mere 
consciousness of his present situation must, through 
all time to come, prevent his raising his head again. 

But, for the present, his resolve was taken, and 
the resolution he had formed on the preceding 
night, remained undisturbed. He had wiitten to his 
mother and sister, announcing the safe conclusion of 
his journey, and saying as little aliout Dotheboy's 
Hall, and saying that little as cheerfully, as he possi- 
bly could. He hoped that by remaining where he 
was, he might do some good, even there; at all 
events, others depended too much on his uncle's 
favor, to admit of his awakening his wrath just then. 

As he was absorbed in these meditations he all at 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 3/1 

once encountered the upturned face of Smike, who 
was on his knees before the stove, picking a few stray 
cinders from the hearth and planting them on the 
fire. He had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and 
when he saw that he was observed, shrunk back as if 
expecting a blow. 

"You need not fear me," said Nicholas, kindly. 
"Are you cold?" 

"N-n-o." 

" You are shivering." 

"I am not cold/' replied Smike, quickly. " I am 
used to it." 

There was such an obvious fear of giving offense 
in his manner, and he was such a timid, broken- 
spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help ex- 
claiming, " Poor fellow ! " 

If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk 
away without a v/ord. But now he burst into tears. 

" Oh, dear, oh dear ! " he cried, covering his face 
with his cracked and horny hands. " My heart will 
break. It will, it will ! " 

" Hush," said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his 
shoulder. " Be a man ; you are nearly one by years, 
God help you ! " 

" By years ! '' cried Smike. " Oh dear, dear, how 
many of them ! How many of them since I was a 
little child, younger than any that are here now ! 
Where are they all ? " 



372 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

"Whom do you speak of? "inquired Nicholas, 
wishing to rouse the poor half-witted creature to 
reason. " Tell me.'' 

" My friends," he replied, " myself — my — oh ! what 
sufferings mine have been ! '* 

''There is always hope," said Nicholas ; he knew 
not what to say. 

" No," rejoined the other ; " no, none for me. Do 
you remember the boy that died here ? " 

" I was not here, you know," said Nicholas, 
gently ; " but what of him ? " 

" Why," replied the youth, drawing closer to his 
questioner's side, " I was with him at night, and 
when it was all silent he cried no m.ore for friends 
he wished to come and sit with him ; but began to 
see faces round his bed that came from home ; he 
said they smiled and talked to him ; and he died at 
last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear?" 

"Yes, yes," rejoined Nicholas. 

" What faces will smile on me when I die ! " cried 
his companion, shivering. "Who will talk to me in 
those long nights ! They cannot come from home ; 
they would frighten me if they did, for I don't know 
what it is and shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, 
pain and fear for me, alive or dead. No hope, no 
hope ! '' 

The bell rang to bed ; and the boy, subsiding at 
the sound into his usual listless state, crept away as 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 373 

if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a heavy 
heart that Nicholas soon afterward— no, not retired ; 
there was no retirement there — followed, to his dirty 
and crowded dormitory. 



The wretched creature, Smike, since the night 
Nicholas had spoken kindly to him in the school- 
had followed him to and fro, with an ever restless 
desire to serve or help him ; anticipating such little 
wants as his humble ability could supply, and con- 
tent only to be near him. He would sit beside him 
for hours, looking patiently into his face ; and a 
word would brighten up his careworn visage, and 
call into it a passing gleam, even of happiness. He 
was an altered being ; he had an object now ; and 
that object was, to show his attachment to the only 
person — that person a stranger — who had treated 
him, not to say with kindness, but like a human 
creature. 

Upon this poor being, all the spleen and ill humor 
that could not be vented on Nicholas were unceas- 
ingly bestowed. Drudgery would have been nothing 
— Smike was well used to that. Buffetings inflicted 
without cause, would have been equally a matter of 
course ; for to them also he had served a long and 
weary apprenticeship ; but it was no sooner observed 
that he had become attached to Nicholas, than stripes 



374 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

and blows, morning, noon, and night, were his only 
portion. Squeers was jealous of the inlluence which 
his man had so soon acquired, and his family hated 
him, and Smike paid for both. Nicholas saw it, and 
ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage 
and cowardly attack. 

He had arranged a few regular lessons for the 
boys ; and one night as he paced up and down the 
dismal school-room, his swollen heart almost bursting 
to think that his protection and countenance should 
have increased the misery of the wretched being 
whose peculiar destitution had awakened his pity, he 
paused mechanically in a dark corner where sat the 
object of his thoughts. 

The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered 
book, with the traces of recent tears still upon his 
face, vainly endeavoring to master some task which 
a child of nine years old, possessed of ordinary 
powers, could have conquered with ease, but which, 
to the addled brain of the crushed boy of nineteen, 
was a sealed and hopeless mystery. Yet there he 
sat, patiently conning the page again and again, 
stimulated by no boyish ambition, for he was the 
common jest and scoff even of the uncouth objects 
that congregated about him, but inspired by the one 
eager desire to please his solitary friend. 

Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder. 

" I can't do it/" said the dejected creature, looking 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 3/5 

Up with bitter disappointment in every feature. " No, 
no.'' 

" Do not try,'' replied Nicholas. 

The boy shook his head, and, closing the book 
with a sigh, looked vacantly round, and laid his head 
upon his arm. He was weeping. 

" Do not, for God sake," said Nicholas, in an agi- 
tated voice; " I cannot bear to see you.'' 

" They are more hard with me than ever,'' sobbed 
the boy. 

" I know it," rejoined Nicholas. "They are." 

" But for you," said the outcast, " I should die. 
They would kill me ; they would ; I know they 
would." 

" You will do better, poor fellow," replied Nicho- 
las, shaking his head mournfully, " when I am 
gone." 

" Gone ! " cried the other, looking intently in his 
face. 

" Softly ! " rejoined Nicholas. " Yes." 

"Are you going?" demanded the boy, in an 
earnest whisper. 

" I cannot say," replied Nicholas. " I was speak- 
ing more to my own thoughts than to you.'' 

"Tell me," said the boy, imploringly, "oh, do 
tell me, ivill you go — will you ? " 

" I shall be driven to that at last ! '' said Nicholas. 
" The world is before me, after all.'' 



3/6 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" Tell me," urged Smike, " is the world as bad 
and dismal as this place ? " 

" Heaven forbid ! '' replied Nicholas, pursuing the 
train of his own thoughts. " Its hardest, coarsest toil 
were happiness to this." 

" Should I ever meet you there ?" demanded the 
boy, speaking with unusual vvildness and volubility. 

" Yes," replied Nicholas, wilHng to soothe him. 

"No, no!'' said the other, clasping him by the 
hand. " Should I — should I — tell me that again. 
Say I should be sure to find you.'' 

"You would," replied Nicholas, with the same 
humane intention, " and I would help and aid you, 
and not bring fresh sorrow on you, as I have done 
here.'' 

The boy caught both the young man's hands 
passionately in his, and, hugging them to his breast, 
uttered a few broken sounds, which were uninteUi- 
gible. Squeers entered, at the moment, and he 
shrank back into his old corner. 



The cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was 
stealing in at the windows of the common sleeping- 
room, when Nicholas, raising himself on his arm, 
looked among the prostrate forms which on every 
side surrounded him, as though in search of some 
particular object. 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 3/7 

It needed a quick eye to detect, from among the 
huddled mass of sleepers, the form of any given 
individual. As they lay closely packed together, 
covered, for warmth's sake, with their patched and 
ragged clothes, little could be distinguished but 
sharp oudines of pale faces, over which the sombre 
light shed the same dull heavy color ; with here and 
there a gaunt arm thrust forth ; its thinness hidden 
by no covering, but fully exposed to view, in all its 
shrunken ughness. There were some who, lying on 
their backs with upturned faces and clinched hands, 
just visible in the leaden light, bore more the aspect 
of dead bodies than of hving creatures ; and there 
were others coiled up into strange and fantastic 
postures, such as might have been taken for the 
uneasy efforts of pain to gain some temporary relief, 
rather than the freaks of slumber. A few— and these 
were among the youngest of the children— slept 
peacefully on, with smiles upon their faces, dreaming 
perhaps of home ; but ever and again a deep and 
heavy sigh, breaking the stillness of the room, an- 
nounced that some new sleeper had awakened to the 
misery of another day ; and, as morning took the 
place of night, the smiles gradually faded away with 
the friendly darkness which had given them birth. 

Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and 
leo-end, who sport on earth in the night season, and 
melt away in the first beam of the sun, which lights 



378 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

grim care and stern reality on their pilgrimage 
through the world 

Nicholas looked upon the sleepers ; at first, with 
the air of one who gazes upon a scene which, though 
familiar to him, has lost none of its sorrowful effect 
in consequence; and afterward, with a more intense 
and searching scrutiny, as a man would who missed 
something his eye was accustomed to meet, and had 
expected to rest upon. He was still occupied in this 
search, and had half risen from his bed in the eager- 
ness of his quest, when the voice of Squeers was 
heard, calling from the bottom of the stairs. 

"Now, then,'' cried that gentleman, "are you 
going to sleep all day up there " 

"You lazy hounds!" added Mrs. Squeers, finish- 
ing the sentence, aiid producing at the same time a 
sharp sound, like that which is occasioned by the 
lacing of stays. 

" We shall be down directly, sir," replied Nicholas. 

" Down directly ! " said Squeers. " Ah ! you had 
better be down directly, or I'll be down upon some 
of you in less. Where's that Smike ?*" 

Nicholas looked hurriedly round again, but made 
no answer. 

" Smike ! '' shouted Squeers. 

" Do you want your head broke in a fresh place, 
Smike?" demanded his amiable lady, in the same 
key. 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 3/9 

Still there was no reply, and still Nicholas stared 
about him, as did the greater part of the boys, who 
were by this time roused. 

** Confound his impudence!" muttered Squeers, 
rapping the stair-rail impatiently with his cane. 
"Nickleby!" 

"Well, sir?" 

" Send that obstinate scoundrel down ; don't you 
hear me calling ? " 

" He is not here, sir," replied Nicholas. 

" Don't tell me a he ! " retorted the schoolmaster. 
" He is." 

"He is not," retorted Nicholas angrily; "don't 
tell me one." 

"We shall soon see that," said Mr. Squeers, rush- 
ing up stairs. " I'll find him, I warrant you." 

With which assurance Mr. Squeers bounced into 
the dormitory, and, swinging his cane in the air ready 
for a blow, darted into the corner where the lean 
body of the drudge was usually stretched at night. 
The cane descended harmlessly upon the ground. 
There was nobody there. 

"What does this mean ?" said Squeers, turning 
round, with a very queer face. " Where have you 
hid him?" 

" I have seen nothing of him since last night," re- 
plied Nicholas. 

" Come," said Squeers, evidently frightened, though 



380 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

he endeavored to look otherwise, " you won't save 
him this way. Where is he ? " 

" At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught I 
know," rejoined Nicholas in a low voice, and fixing 
his eyes full on the master's face. 

" D — n you, what do you mean by that? " retorted 
Squeers in great perturbation. Without waiting for 
a reply, he inquired of the boys whether any one 
among them knew anything of their missing school- 
mate. 

There was a general hum of anxious denial, in the 
midst of which, one shrill voice was heard to say (as, 
indeed, everybody thought): 

" Please, sir, I think Smike's run away, sir." 

"Ha!" ciied Squeers, turning sharp round. 
"Who said that?" 

" Toiukins, please, sir " rejoined a chorus of voices. 
Mr. Squeers made a plunge into the crowd, and at 
one dive, caught a very little boy, habited still in his 
night-gear, and the perplexed expression of whose 
countenance as he was brought forward, seemed to 
intimate that he was as yet uncertain whether he was 
about to be punished or rewarded for the suggestion. 
He was not long in doubt. 

"You think he has run away, do you, sir?'' de- 
manded Squeers. 

"Yes, please, sir," replied the little boy. 

" And what, sir," said Squeers, catching the little 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 38 1 

boy suddenly by the arms and whisking up his 
drapery in a most dexterous manner ; '^ what reason 
have you to suppose that any boy would want to 
run away from this establishment ? Eh, sir? " 

The child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer, 
and Mr. Squeers, throwing himself into the most 
favorable attitude for exercising his strength, beat 
him until the little urchin in his writhings actually 
rolled out of his hands when he mercifully allowed 
him to roll away as best he could. 

" There," said Squeers. " Now if any other boy 
thinks Smike has run away, I should be glad to have 
a talk with him." 

There was, of course, a profound silence, during 
which Nicholas showed his disgust as plainly as looks 
could show it. 

" Well, Nickleby, " said Squeers eyeing him mali- 
ciously. " Vo7i think he has run away, 1 suppose ?" 

*' I think it extremely likely," replied Nicholas, in 
a quiet manner. 

"Oh, you do, do you?" sneered Squeers. ** Maybe 
you know he has?" 

" I know nothing of the kind.'' 

"He didn't tell you he was going, I suppose, did 
he?" sneered Squeers. 

" He did not/' replied Nicholas, " I am very glad 
he did not, for it would then have been my duty to 
have warned you in time." 



382 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" Which no doubt you would have been devilish 
sorry to do," said Squeers, in a taunting fashion. 

"I should, indeed," replied Nicholas. *'You in- 
terpret my feelings with great accuracy.'' 

Mrs. Squeers had listened to this conversation 
from the bottom of the stairs, but, now losing all 
patience, she hastily assumed her night-jacket, and 
made her way to the scene of action. 

" What's all this here to do ? " said the lady, as 
the boys fell off right and left, to save her the trou- 
ble of clearing a passage with her brawny arms. 
" What on earth are you talking to him for, 
Squeery ? " 

"Why, my dear," said Squeers, "the fact is, that 
Smike is not to be found.'' 

" Well I know that,'' said the lady, " and where's 
the wonder? If you get a parcel of proud-stom- 
ached teachers that set the young dogs a rebeUing, 
what else can you look for ? Now, young man, you 
just have the kindness to take yourself off to the 
school-room, and take the boys off with you, and 
don't you stir out of there till you have leave given 
you, or you and I may fall out in a way that'll spoil 
your beauty, handsome as you think yourself, and so 
I tell you." 

" Indeed ! " said Nicholas. 

" Yes ; and indeed and indeed again, Mister Jack- 
anapes," said the excited lady ; " and I wouldn't 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 383 

keep such as you in the house another hour, if I had 
my way.'* 

" Nor would you if I had mine," rephed Nicholas. 
*• Now, boys ! '' 

" Ah ! Now, boys," said Mrs. Squeers, mimicking, 
as nearly as she could, the voice and manner of 
:he usher. " Follow your leader, boys, and take 
pattern by Smike, if you dare. See what he'll get 
for himself, when he is brought back ; and, mind ! I 
tell you that you shall have as bad and twice as bad, 
if you so much as open your mouths about him.'' 

" If I catch him," said Squeers, " I'll only stop 
short of flaying him alive. I give you notice, boys." 

"If you catch him," retorted Mrs. Squeers, con- 
temptuously, " you are sure to ; you can't help it, if 
you go the right way to work ! Come ! Away with 
you ! " 

With these words, Mrs. Squeers dismissed the 
boys, and after a little light skirmishing with those in 
the rear who were pressing forward to get out of the 
way, but were detained for a few moments by the 
throng in front, succeeded in clearing the room, when 
she confronted her spouse alone. 

" He is off ! " said Mrs. Squeers. " The cow-house 
and stable are locked up, so he can't be there : and 
he's not down stairs anywhere, for the girl has looked. 
He must have gone York way, and by a public road, 
too." 



384 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" Why must he ? " inquired Squeers. 

"Stupid!" said Mrs. Squeers, angrily. "He 
hadn't any money, had he ? '' 

" Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, 
that I know of,'' replied Squeers. 

" To be sure/' rejoined Mrs. Squeers, " and he 
didn't take anyting to eat with him ; that I'll answer 
for. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed Squeers. 

" Then, of course," said Mrs. S., " he must beg his 
way, and he could do that nowhere but on the public 
road. 

" True ! Yes ; but you would never have thought 
of it, for all that, if I hadn't said so," replied his wife. 
" Now, if you take the chaise and go one road, and 
I borrow Swallow's chaise and go the other, what 
with keeping our eyes open, and asking questions, 
one or other of us is pretty certain to lay hold of him." 

The worthy lady's plan was adopted and put in 
execution without a moment's delay. After a very 
hasty breakfast, and the prosecution of some in- 
quires in the village, the result of which seemed to 
show that he was on the right track, Squeers started 
forth in the pony-chaise, intent upon discovery and 
vengeance. Shortly afterward, Mrs. Squeers, arrayed 
in the white top-coat, and tied up in various shawls 
and handkerchiefs, issued forth in another chaise , 
and another direction taking with her a good-size 



1 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 385 

bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong cord, and a 
stout laboring man ; all provided and carried upon 
the expedition, with the sole object of assisting in the 
capture, and (once caught) insuring the safe custody 
of the unfortunate Smike. 

Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, 
sensible that whatever might be the upshot of the 
boy's flfight, nothing but painful and deplorable con- 
sequences were likely l:o ensue from it. Death, 
from want and exposure to the weather, was the best 
that could be expected from the protracted wander- 
ing of so poor and helpless a creature, alone and 
unfriended, through a country of which he was 
wholly Ignorant. There was little, perhaps, to choose 
between this fate and a return to the tender mercies 
of the Yorkshire school ; but the unhappy being had 
established a hold upon his sympathy and compas- 
sion, which made his heart ache at the prospect of 
the suffering he was destined to undergo. He lin- 
gered on in restless anxiety, picturing a thousand 
possibilities, until the evening of the next day, when 
Squeers returned alone and unsuccessful. 

" No news of the scamp ! " said the schoolmaster, 
who had evidently been stretching his legs on the 
old principle, not a few times during the journey. 
" I'll have consolation for this out of somebody, 
Nickleby, if Mrs. Squeers don't hunt him down. So 
I give you warning." 
25 



386 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

" It is not in my power to console you, sir, '' said 
Nicholas. " It's nothing to me." 

" Isn't it ? " said Squeers, in a threatening manner. 
•• We shall see ! " 

" We shall," rejoined Nicholas. 

" Here's the pony run right off his legs, and me 
obliged to come home with a hack cob, that'll cost 
fifteen shillings, besides other expensesf' said 
Squeers; '* who's to pay for that, do you hear?'' 

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders, and remained 
silent. 

" I'll have it out of somebody, I tell you,'' said 
Squeers, his usual harsh, crafty manner changed to 
open bullying. " None of your whining vaporings 
here, Mr. Puppy ! but be off to your kennel, for it's 
past your bedtime ! Come, get out ! " 

Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hand involun- 
tarily, for his finger-ends tingled to avenge the insult; 
but remembering that the man was drunk, and that 
it could come to little but a noisy brawl, he contented 
himself with darting a contemptuous look at the 
tyrant, and walked, as majestically as he could, up- 
stairs ; not a little nettled, however, to observe that 
Miss Squeers, and Master Squeers, and the servant 
girl, were enjoying the scene from a snug corner ; 
the two former indulging in many edifying remarks 
about the presumption of poor upstarts, which occa- 
sioned a vast deal of laughter, in which even the 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 38/ 

most miserable of all miserable servant girls joined; 
while Nicholas, stung to the quick, drew over his 
head such bed-clothes as he had, and sternly re- 
solved that the outstanding account between himself 
and Mr. Squeers should be settled rather more 
speedily than the latter anticipated. 

Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely 
awake when he heard the wheels of a chaise ap- 
proaching the house. It stopped. The voice of Mrs. 
Squeers was heard, and in exultation, ordering a 
glass of spirits for somebody, which was in itself a 
sufficient sign that something extraordinary had hap- 
pened. Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the win- 
dow ; but he did so, and the very first object that 
met his eyes was the wretched Smike , so bedrabbled 
with mud and rain, so haggard and worn, and wild, 
that but for his garments being such as no scarecrow 
was ever seen to wear, he might have been doubtful, 
even then of his identity. 

" Lift him out," said Squeers, after he had literally 
feasted his eyes in silence upon the culprit. " Bring 
him in ; bring him in ! " 

" Take care,'' cried Mrs. Squeers, as her husband 
proffered his assistance. " We tied his legs under 
the apron and made 'em fast to the chaise, to prevent 
him giving us the sHp again. 

With hands trembling with dehght, Squeers un- 
loosened the cord ; and Smike, to all appearance 



388 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

more dead than alive, was brought into the house 
and securely locked up in a cellar, until such time 
as Mr. Squeers should deem it expedient to operate 
upon him, in presence of the assembled-school. 

Upon a hasty consideration of the circumstance 
it may be a matter of surprise to some persons that 
Mr. and Mrs. Squeers should have taken so much 
trouble to repossess themselves of an incumbrance 
of which it was their wont to complain so loudly ; 
but their surprise will cease when the manifold ser- 
vices of the drudge, if performed by anybody else, 
would have cost the establishment some ten or 
twelve shillings per week in the shape of wages ; and, 
furthermore, that all runav/ays were, as a matter of 
policy, made severe examples of at Dotheboys Hall, 
inasmuch as, in consequence of the limited extent of 
its attractions, there was but little inducement be- 
yond the powerful impulse of fear, for any pupil, pro- 
vided with the usual number of legs and the power 
of using them, to remain. 

The news that Smike had been caught and brought 
back in triumph ran like wild-fire through the 
hungry community, and the expectation was on tip- 
toe all the morning. On tiptoe it was destined to re- 
main, however, until afternoon ; when Squeers, hav- 
ing refreshed himself with his dinner, and further 
strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made 
his appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 389 

with a countenance of portentous import, and a fear- 
ful instrument of flagellation, strong, supple, wax- 
ended, and new — in short, purchased that morning, 
expressly for the occasion. 

"Is every boy here?" asked Squeers in a tre- 
mendous voice. 

Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to 
speak ; so Squeers glared along the lines to assure 
himself; and every eye drooped, and every head 
cowered down, as he did so. 

" Each boy keep his place," said Squeers, admin- 
istering his favorite blow to the desk, and regarding 
with gloomy satisfaction the universal start which it 
never failed to occasion. 

" Nickleby ! to your desk, sir." 

It was remarked by more than one small observer 
that there was a very curious and unusual expression 
in the usher's face ; but he took his seat without 
opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a tri- 
umphant glance at his assistant and a look of most 
comprehensive despotism on the boys, left the room, 
and shortly afterwards returned, dragging Smike by 
the collar — or rather by that fragment of his jacket 
which was nearest the place where his collar would 
have been, had he boasted such a decoration. 

In any other place the appearance of the wretched, 
jaded, spiritless, object would have occasioned a 
murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It had 



390 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

some effect even there ; for the lookers-on moved 
uneasily in their seats : and a few of the boldest ven- 
tured to steal looks at each other, expressive of in- 
dignation and pity. 

They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze 
was fastened on the luckless Smike, as he inquired, 
according to custom in such cases, whether he had 
anything to say for himself 

"Nothing, I suppose?" said Squeers, with a 
diabolical grin. 

Smike glanced round, and his eyes rested, for an 
instant, on Nicholas, as if he expected him to in- 
tercede ; but his look was riveted on his desk. 

" Have you anything to say ? " demanded Squeers 
again ; giving his right arm two or three flourishes 
to try its power and suppleness. " Stand a little out 
of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I've hardly got 
room enough." 

" Spare me, sir ! '' cried Smike. 

*'Oh ! that's all, is it ?" said Squeers. 

" Yes, I'll flog you within an inch of your life, and 
spare you that." 

"Ha, ha, ha! "laughed Mrs. Squeers, "that's a 
good 'un ! " 

" I was driven to do it," said Smike, faintly ; and 
casting another imploring look at him. 

" Driven to do it were you ? " said Squeers. " Oh ! 
it wasn't your fault; it was mine I suppose —eh ? " 



I 
1 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 39I 

"A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obsti- 
nate, sneaking dog," exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, tak- 
ing Smike's head under her arm, and administering 
a cuff to every epithet ; " what does he mean by 
that ? " 

" Stand aside, my dear," replied Squeers. " We'll 
try and find out." 

Mrs. Squeers being out of breath with her exer- 
tions, complied. Squeers caught the boy firmly in 
his grip ; one desperate cut had fallen on his body — 
he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream 
of pain — it was raised again, and again about to fall 
— when Nicholas Nickleby suddenly starting up, 
cried, " Stop ! " in a voice that made the rafters ring. 

" Who cried stop ? " said Squeers, turning savagely 
round. 

" I," said Nicholas, stepping forward. "This must 
not go on.*' 

" Must not go on ! " cried Squeers, almost, in 
a shriek. 

" No ! " thundered Nicholas. 

Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the inter- 
ference, Squeers released his hold of Smike, and fall- 
ing back a pace or two, gazed upon Nicholas with 
looks that were positively frightful. 

" I say must not," repeated Nicholas, nothing 
daunted ; " shall not ! I will prevent it.'' 

Squeers continued to gaze upon him ; with his eyes 



392 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Starting out of his head ; but astonishment had actu- 
ally for the moment, bereft him of speech. 

" You have disregarded all my quiet interference 
in the miserable lad's behalf," said Nicholas; "you 
have returned no answer to the letter in which I 
begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be re- 
sponsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't 
blame me for this public interference. You have 
brought it upon yourself; not I." 

"Sit down, beggar !" screamed Squeers, almost 
beside himself with rage, and seizing Smike as he 
spoke. 

" Wretch," rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, " touch him 
at your peril ! I will not stand by and see it done. 
My blood is up, and I have the strength often such 
men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven I will 
not spare you, if you drive me on ! " 

" Stand back ! *' cried Squeers, brandishing his 
weapon. 

" I have a long series of insults to avenge,'' said 
Nicholas, flushed with passion ; " and my indigna- 
tion is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties prac- 
ticed on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have a 
care ; for if you do raise the devil within me, the con- 
sequences shall fall heavily upon your own head." 

He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a vio- 
lent outbreak of wrath, and with a cry like the howl 
of a wild beast, spat upon him, and struck him a 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 393 

blow across the face with his instrument of torture, 
which raised up a bar of hvid flesh as it was inflicted. 
Smarting with the agony of the blow, and concen- 
trating into that one moment all his feelings of rage, 
scorn and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, 
wrested the weapon from his hand, and, pinning 
him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for 
mercy. 

The boys — with the exception of Master Squeers, 
who, coming to his father's assistance, harassed the 
enemy in the rear — moved not, hand or foot ; but 
Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to 
the tail of her partner's coat, and endeavored to drag 
him from his infuriated adversary ; while Miss 
Squeers, who had been peeping through the key-hole 
in the expectation of a very different scene, darted in 
at the very beginning of the attack, and after launch- 
ing a shower of ink-stands at the usher's head, beat 
Nicholas to her heart's content. 

Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the 
blows no more than if they had been dealt with 
feathers ; but, becoming tired of the noise and up- 
roar, and feeling that his arm grew weak besides, he 
threw all his remaining strength into half-a-dozen 
finishing cuts, and flung Squeers from him, with all 
the force he could muster. The violence of his fall 
precipitated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adja- 
cent form ; and Squeers, striking his head against it 



394 MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

in his descent, lay at his full length on the ground, 
stunned and motionless. 

Having brought affairs to this happy termination, 
and ascertained, to his thorough satisfaction, that 
Sciueers was only stunned, and not dead (upon which 
point he had had some unpleasant doubts ar first), 
Nicholas left his family to restore him, and retired to 
consider what course he had better adopt. He 
looked anxiously round for Smike as he left the 
room, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

After a brief consideration, he packed up a few 
clothes in a small leathern valise, and, finding that 
nobody offered to oppose his progress, marched 
boldly out by the front door, and, shortly afterward, 
struck into the road which led to Greta Bridge. 

When he had cooled sufficiently to be enabled to 
give his present circumstances some little reflection, 
they did not appear in a very encouraging light ; he 
had only four shillings and a few pence in his pocket, 
and was something more than two hundred and fifty 
miles from London, whither he resolved to direct his 
steps, that he might ascertain, among other things, 
what account of the morning's proceedings Mr. 
Squeers transmitted to his most affectionate uncle. 

He did not travel far that afternoon, for by this 
time it was nearly dark, and there had been a heavy 
fall of snow, which not only rendered the way toil- 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 395 

some, but the track uncertain and difficult to find 
after daylight, save by experienced wayfarers. He 
lay that night at a cottage where beds were let at a. 
cheap rate to the more humble class of travellers ; 
and rising betimes next morning, made his way be- 
fore night to Boroughbridge. Passing through that 
town in search of some cheap resting place, he 
stumbled upon an empty barn within a couple of 
hundred yards of the roadside, in a warm corner of 
which he stretched his weary limbs and soon fell 
asleep. 

When he awoke next morning, and tried to recol- 
lect his dreams, which had been all connected with 
his recent sojourn at Dotheboys Hall, he sat up and 
rubbed his eyes, and stared — not with the most com- 
posed countenance possible — at some motionless ob- 
ject which seemed to be stationed within a few yards 
in front of him. 

" Strange !" cried Nicholas; "can this be some 
lingering creation of the visions that have scarcely 
left me ? It cannot be real — and yet I — 1 am awake ! 
Smike!" 

The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped 
upon its knees at his feet. It was Smike indeed. 

"Why do you kneel to me?" said Nicholas, 
hastily raising him. 

" To go with you — anywhere — everywhere— to the 
world's end — to the church-yard grave," replied 



39^ MASTERPIECES FROM DICKENS. 

Smike, clinging to his hand. " Let me, oh, do let 
me ! You are my home — my kind friend — take me 
with you, pray." 

" I am a friend who can do httle for you,'' said 
Nicholas, kindly. " How came you here ? " 

He had followed him, it seemed ; had never lost 
sight of him all the way ; had watched when he slept 
and when he halted for refreshment ; and had feared 
to appear before, lest he should be sent back. He 
had not intended to appear now, but Nicholas had 
awakened more suddenly than he had looked for, 
and he had had no rime to conceal himself. 

''Poor fellow," said Nicholas, "your hard fate 
denies you any friend but one, and he is nearly as 
poor and helpless as yourself." 

" May I — may I go with you ? " asked Smike, tim- 
idly. " I wiU be your faithful, hard-working servant, 
I will, indeed. I want no clothes," added the poor 
creature, drawing his rags together; "these will do 
very well. I only v/ant to be near you." 

'"And you shall," cried Nicholas. "And the world 
shall deal by you as it does by me, till one or both of 
ur shall quit it for a better. Come.'' 

With these words, he strapped his burden on his 
shoulders, and, taking his stick in one hand, exten- 
ded the other to his delighted charge ; and so they 
passed out of the old barn together. 






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